botersebresetanlatiete® 


ae Se siete 


yet 








THE LIBRARY 
OF 
THE UNIVERSITY 
OF CALIFORNIA 
LOS ANGELES 


GIFT OF 


GUY ENDORE 


Bee 











DEBTS OF HONOR 


Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2008 with funding from 
Microsoft Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/debtsofhonor00jk 


WORKS OF MAURUS JOKAI 


HUNGARIAN EDITION 


DEBTS OF HONOR 


Translated from the Hungarian 


By 
ARTHUR B. YOLLAND 


NEW YORK 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 








TRANSLATOR’S NOTE 


In rendering into English this novel of Dr. Jokai’s, 
which many of his countrymen consider his master- 
piece, I have been fortunate enough to secure the colla- 
boration of my friend, Mr. Zoltan Dunay, a former 
colleague, whose excellent knowledge of the English 
language and literature marked him out as the most 
competent and desirable collaborator. 

ARTHUR B. YOLAND. 

BupbAPEST, 1898. 


ia o U 
ae 
i ! of s/h 
Ly ¥ 













Paid if’ ¥ 
vane, a vi 
eat st 4 i t veclis Me . ssi Ph ‘is ' | 
he ty ee eT Pe eat: ay aaa ey 


aprtvey: ait ith: om ie he Ae | } ‘iy 7 Pee) 

TOTP eka: +) uae 4? Con 

Wt gem eo Nat ret 3 Ti ry eg pay, 
BM Wikies Wiig 40 bey: tt fies OS tne “eee 

" ae A nes . 

RIAA, a oe ; 


XXI. 
XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 


XXVIII. 


XXIX. 
XXX. 
XXXII. 
XXXII. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 
The journal’ Gf Desidertus ) ij. grece se cteigee sive I 
ee AGEL SUDSCIELte era lcte ia sraleieialcteistoryeietcls terse 30 
My Right Honorable Uncles iyi ioscie oi o)sestereinles 59 
The Atheist ‘and the) Hypocrites oi). 35 s!s sre 71 
ibhewvwild- Creature s/ilaunt iecires oesieiiecieiele 104 
Bruits Prematurely Ripe ssicis oc sicters oeellaleinierereiciele 114 
Mies SECKEE NVEIDINIGS ooo cvapsieys orm ieiaveate wiciers mazes 122 
‘he End of the Beginning). ..\cij.cjse.cs ences os 131 
Aged at Seventeen st). 6 oii Woes ne sles e ose o nine « 143 
Tvandi the Demonic tare cies sliseicieisle(elaocevele ler 148 
SpeALolevdyElOonnelriiey sees aereeemteloto s ciieveisierets ig 
AN Glancelntorareistollbarrel je cece dee cle oie 185 
Which Will’ @onvert the Other ass 6s cies «i 199 
AD TLoIN pba Kee eiatt ake Ane Os A eR ae en RIPE i 225 
if He wvoves, then Let Him Loveta..\5.2\..0cuises 240 
PAARL AE VERNER CS Pyare esheets os etc, «si ss ahacmmatans ovshs'o"a/e\ clan sie 249 
The Yellow-robed Woman in the Cards........ 258 
The, binger-post of ;Death:\. jcc careers wisiess is 266 
DEST o Ata Senne Ae aR Set ACION Ec ohetCa pes cuter 281 
Mheubiatale WD arvaltrcs/cteic ornare eter atpeemarciorereieions ieie 285 
PE TPAE WLSCEEGS CCA, silo host she) nee rare eNVane eharars; ticket te 209 
ihe Wnconsciotsmehantomenicas ce clerloleiieael ee 306 
mMhes Mayr) GaAdness. 2. ia casa «)shereieiorsie: amin ieis\ tees 322 
Beni adePestens tc clcla chan spelivers a nita’e a ant ctors tonerate 330 
WihtleithelMirsic Sounds) an. svelecs nisiete crsieiste ster 341 
MhesEnchantmentior WOvey ssc wiser oleerrerele 351 
When the Nightingale Sings................... 360 
TRE MNGE NE STLG RS le. lsc cs <) zu sls rote atsterattaieiois 370 
he Smiter the Comien. vc\ssu)e/da eee ne ne ce 383 
I gd BSS Behan eh UN eT IS MOST RSF OCU Gd Cuan A Rin 307 
Mews ridalvibeasteras ceric siercie cea a ordeal steve onsteves 407 
When Wer bladiGrown! Oldie cone sees 413 

















zy | . 
we BY ao) pe 
; 
= 
> Tet fia Aap leror| ree 
| Pr ne: 
"dosti kp ee 
\ nt 1wSP NV) ae 
wm ; ( i Val ees : 
‘tet YY. ati Ae hap ee a 
bi _ (oil) (hia 
ai ph uglnad ay vit Nudie saa ne 
be avr ae 0 
te! Gi") Lee en . 
iyi ' ie ae 4 
bs Ad i% ‘ avid) 
én ay wl oa ‘ERS 
* f ae: AME td ok 
> ay vie 4 si VF Tat bhi 
ii ; b) d . a a holt 
: LT MEME ORME eS 
rw i ane ae 
(Ws f ¥ i 
a.) i WW ; watt 
re , ‘ginal tua Use: hae 
bas : Sibir tide ie 
tar Fi cea 
| Pa ; ie tots hide ay Panels iy ' 
r Ne Hae ea a a 
its | (oe wy A wi: awit a vis 


, " me sect +" wit oe; 
‘ b nines Con iit sii 





DEBTS OF HONOR 


CHAPTER I 
THE JOURNAL OF DESIDERIUS 


At that time I was but ten years old, my brother 
Lorand sixteen; our dear mother was still young, 
and father, | well remember, no more than thirty-six. 
Our grandmother, on my tather’s side, was also of our 
party, and at that time was some sixty years of age; she 
had lovely thick hair, of the pure whiteness of snow. 
In my childhood I had often thought how dearly the 
angels must love those who keep their hair so beautiful 
and white; and used to have the childish belief that 
one’s hair grows white from abundance of joy. 

It is true, we never had any sorrow; it seemed as if 
our whole family had contracted some secret bond of 
unity, whereby each member thereof bound himself to 
cause as much joy and as little sorrow as possible to the 
others. 

I never heard any quarrelling in our family. I 
never saw a passionate face, never an anger that lasted 
till the morrow, never a look at all reproachful. My 
mother, grandmother, father, my brother and I, lived 
like those who understand each other’s thoughts, and 
cnly strive to excel one another in the expression of 
their love. 

To confess the truth, I loved none of our family so 
much as I did my brother. Nevertheless I should 
have been thrown into some little doubt, if some one 


I 


2 Debts of Honor 


had asked me which of them I should choose, if I must 
part from three of the four and keep only one for my- 
self. But could we only have remained together, 
without death to separate us or disturb our sweet con- 
tentment, until ineffable eternity, in such a case I had 
chosen for my constant companion only my brother. 
He was so good to me. For he was terribly strong. I 
thought there could not be a stronger fellow in the 
whole town. His school-fellows feared his fists, and 
never dared to cross his path; yet he did not look so 
powerful; he was rather slender, with a tender girl- 
like countenance. 

Even now IJ can hardly stop speaking of him. 

As I was saying, our family was very happy. We 
never suffered from want, living in a fine house with 
every ‘comfort. Even the very servants had plenty. 
Torn clothes were always replaced by new ones and as 
to friends—why the jolly crowds that would make the 
house fairly ring with merry-making on name-days* 
and on similar festive occasions proved that there was 
no lack of them. That every one had a feeling of high 
esteem for us I could tell by the respectful greetings ad- 
dressed to us from every direction. 

My father was a very serious man; quiet and not 
talkative. He had a pale face, a long black beard, and 
thick eyebrows. Sometimes he contracted his eyebrows, 
and then we might have been afraid of him; but his 
idea always was,that nobody should fear him; not more 
than once a year did it happen that he cast an angry 
look at some one. However, I never saw him in a good 
humor. On the occasion of our most festive banquets, 
when our guests were bursting into peals of laughter at 
sprightly jests, he would sit there at the end of the ta- 
ble as one who heard naught. If dear mother leaned 
affectionately on his shoulder, or Lorand kissed his 
face, or if I nestled to his breast and plied him, in 


*In Hungary persons celebrate the name-day of the saint 


after whom they are called with perhaps more ceremony than 
their birthday. 


The Journal of Desiderius 3 


child-guise, with queries on unanswerable topics, at 
such a time his beautiful, melancholy eyes would beam 
with such inexpressible love, such enchanting sweet- 
ness would well out from them! Buta smile came there 
never at any time, nor did any one cause him to laugh. 

He was not one of those men who, when wine or 
good humor unloosens their tongue, become loquacious, 
and tell all that lies hidden in their heart, speak of the 
past and future, chatter and boast. No, he never used 
gratuitous words. There was some one else in our 
family just as serious, our grandmother; she was just 
as taciturn, just as careful about contracting her thick 
eyebrows, which were already white at that time; just 
as careful about uttering words of anger; just as in- 
capable of laughing or even smiling. I often remarked 
that her eyes were fixed unremittingly on his face; and 
sometimes I found myself possessed of the childish idea 
that my father was always so grave in his behavior be- 
cause he knew that his mother was gazing at him. If 
afterward their eyes met by chance, it seemed as if 
they had discovered each other’s thoughts—some old, 
long-buried thoughts, of which they were the guardi- 
ans; and I often saw how my oid grandmother would 
rise from her everlasting knitting, and come to father 
as he sat among us thus abstracted, scarce remarking 
that mother, Lorand, and I were beside him, caressing 
and pestering him; she would kiss his forehead, and his 
countenance would seem to change in a moment: he 
would become more affectionate, and begin to converse 
with us; thereupon grandmother would kiss him afresh 
and return to her knitting. 

It is only now that I recall all these incidents. At that 
time I found nothing remarkable in them. 

One evening our whole family circle was surprised 
by the unusually good humorthat had come over father. 
To each one of us he was very tender, very affection- 
ate; entered into a long conversation with Lorand, 
asked him of his school-work, imparted to him infor- 
mation on subjects of which as yet he had but a faulty 
knowledge; took me on his knee and smoothed my 


4 Debts of Honor 


head; addressed questions to me in Latin, and praised 
me for answering them correctly; kissed our dear 
mother more than once, and after supper was over re- 
lated merry tales of the old days. When we began 
to laugh at them, he laughed too. It was such a pleas- 
ure to me to have seen my father laugh once. It was 
such a novel sensation that I almost trembled with joy. 

Only our old grandmother remained serious. The 
brighter father’s face became, the more closely did 
those white eyebrows contract. Not for a single mo- 
ment did she take her eyes off father’s face; and, as 
often as he looked at her with his merry, smiling counte- 
nance, a cold shudder ran through her ancient frame. 
Nor could she let father’s unusual gayety pass without 
comment. 

“How good-humored you are to-day, my son!” 

“To-morrow I shall take the children to the coun- 
try,” he answered; “the prospect of that has always 
been a source of great joy to me.” 

We were to go to the country! The words had a 
pleasant sound for us also. We ran to father, to kiss 
him for his kindness; how happy he had made us by 
this promise! His face showed that he knew it well. 

“Now you must go to bed early, so as not to over- 
sleep in the morning; the carriage will be here at day- 
break.” 

To go to bed is only too easy, but to fall asleep is 
difficult when one is still a child, and has received a 
promise of being taken to the country. We had a beau- 
tiful and pleasant country property, not far from town; 
my brother was as fond as I was of being there. Mother 
and graidmother never came with us. Why, we knew 
not; they said they did not like the country. We were 
indeed surprised at this. Not to like the country—to 
wander in the fields, on flowery meadows; to breathe 
the precious perfumed air; to gather round one the 
beautiful, sagacious, and useful domestic animals? Can 
there be any one in the world who does not love that? 
Child, I know there is none. 

My brother was all excitement for the chase. How 


The Journal of Desiderius 5 


he would enter forest and reeds! what beautiful green- 
necked wild duck he would shoot. How many multi- 
colored birds’ eggs he would bring home to me. 

“ T will go with you, too,” I said. 

“No; some ill might befall you. You can remain at 
home in the garden to angle in the brook, and catch 
tiny little fishes.” 

“And we shall cook them for dinner.” What a 
splendid idea! Long, long we remained awake; first 
Lorand, then I, was struck by some idea which had to 
be mentioned; and so each prevented the other from 
sleeping. Oh! how great the gladness that awaited us 
on the morrow! 

Late in the night a noise as of fire arms awoke me. 
It is true that I always dreamed of guns. I had 
seen Lorand at the chase, and feared he would shoot 
himself. 

“What have you shot, Lorand?” I asked half asleep. 

“Remain quite still,” said my brother, who was ly- 
ing in the bed near me, and had risen at the noise. “I 
shall see what has happened outside.” With these 
words he went out. 

Several rooms divided our bedroom from that of our 
parents. I heard no sound except the opening of doors 
here and there. 

Soon Lorand returned. He told me merely to sleep 
on peacefully—a high wind had risen and had slammed 
to a window that had remained open; the glass was all 
broken into fragments ; that had caused the great noise. 

And therewith he proceeded to dress. 

“Why are you dressing?” 

“Well, the broken window must be mended with 
something to prevent the draught coming in; it is in 
mother’s bedroom. You can sleep on peacefully.” 

Then he placed his hand on my head, and that hand 
was like ice. 

S Is it cold outside, Lorand? ” 

“Then why does your hand tremble so?” 
“ True; it is very cold. Sleep on, little Desi.” 


6 Debts of Honor 


As he went out he left an intermediate door open for 
a moment; and in that moment the sound of mother’s 
laughter reached my ears. That well-known ringing 
sweet voice, that indicates those naive women who 
among their children are themselves the greatest chil- 
dren. 

What could cause mother to laugh so loudly at this 
late hour of the night? Because the window was 
broken? At that time I did not yet know that there 
is a horrible affliction which attacks women with ago- 
nies of hell, and amidst these heart-rending agonies 
forces them to laugh incessantly. 

I comforted myself with what my brother had said, 
and forcibly buried my head in my pillow that I might 
compel myself to fall asleep. 

It was already late in the morning when I awoke 
again. This time also my brother had awakened me. 
He was already quite dressed. 

My first thought was of our visit to the country. 

“Is the carriage already here? Why did you not 
wake me earlier? Why, you are actually dressed!” 

I also immediately hastened to get up, and began to 
dress ; my brother helped me, and answered not a word 
to my constant childish prattling. He was very seri- 
ous, and often gazed in directions where there was 
nothing to be seen. 

“ Some one has annoyed you, Lorand?”’ 

My brother did not reply, only drew me to his side 
and combed my hair. He gazed at me incessantly with 
a sad expression. 

“Has some evil befallen you, Lorand? ” 

No sign, even of the head, of assent or denial; he 
merely tied my neckerchief quietly into a bow. 

We disputed over the coat I should wear; I wished 
to put on a blue one. Lorand, on the contrary, wished 
me to wear a dark green one. 

I resisted him. 

“Why, we are going to the country! There the blue 
doublet will be just the thing. Why don’t you give it 
to me? Because you have none like it!” 


The Journal of. Desiderius 7 


Lorand said nothing; he merely looked at me with 
those great reproachful eyes of his. It was enough for 
me. I allowed him to dress me in the dark green coat. 
And yet I would continually grumble about it. 

“Why, you are dressing me as if we were to go to 
an examination or to a funeral.” 

At these words,Lorand suddenly pressed me to him, 
folding me in his embrace, then knelt down before me 
and began to weep, and sob so that his tears be- 
dewed my hair. 

“ Lorand, what is the matter?” I asked in terror; 
but he could not speak for weeping. ‘‘ Don’t weep, 
Lorand. Did I annoy you? Don’t be angry.” 

Long did he weep, all the time holding me in his 
arms. Then suddenly he heaved a deep and terrifying 
sigh, and in a low voice stammered in my ear: 

“* Father—is—dead.” 

I was one of those children who could not weep; 
who learn that only with manhood. At such a time 
when I should have wept, I only felt as if some worm 
were gnawing into my heart, as if some languor had 
seized me, which deprived me of all feeling expressed 
by the five senses—my brother wept for me. Finally, 
he kissed me and begged me to recover myself. But I 
was not beside myself. I saw and heard everything. 
I was like a log of wood, incapable of any movement. 

It was unfortunate that I was not gifted with the 
power of showing how I suffered., 

But my mind could not fathom the depths of that 
thought. Our father was dead! 

Yesterday evening he was still talking with us; em- 
bracing and kissing us; he had promised to take us to 
the country, and to-day he was not: he was dead. Quite 
incomprehensible! In my childhood I had often racked 
my brains with the question, ‘‘ What is there beyond 
the world?” Void. Well, and what surrounds that 
void? Many times this distracting thought drove me 
almost to madness. Now this same maddening di- 
lemma seized upon me. How could it be that my 
father was dead? 


8 Debts of Honor 


“Tet us go to mother!” was my next thought. 

“We shall go soon after her. She has already de- 
parted.” 

“Whither?” 

“To the country.” 

“ But, why?” 

“ Because she is ill.” 

“ Then why did she laugh so in the night?” 

“ Because she is ill.” 

This was still more incomprehensible to my poor in- 
tellect. 

A thought then occurred to me. My face became 
suddenly brighter. 

“Lorand, of course you are joking; you are fooling 
me. You merely wished to alarm me. Weare all going 
away to the country to enjoy ourselves! and you only 
wished to take the drowsiness from my eyes when you 
told me father was dead.” 

At these words Lorand clasped his hands, and, with 
motionless, agonized face, groaned out: 

“ Desi, don’t torture me; don’t torture me with your 
smiling face.” 

This caused me to be still more alarmed. I began 
to tremble, seized one of his arms, and implored him 
not to be angry. Of course, I believed what he said. 

He could see that I believed, for all my limbs were 
trembling. 

“Let us go to him, Lorand.” 

My brother merely gazed at me as if he were horri- 
fied at what I had said. 

© To father? ” 

“Yes. What if I speak to him, and he awakes? ” 

At this suggestion Lorand’s two eyes became like 
fire. It seems as if he were forcibly holding back the 
rush of a great flood of tears. Then between his teeth 
he murmured: 

“ He will never awake again.” 

“Yet I would like to kiss him.” 

“His hand?” 

“ His hand and his face.” 





The Journal of Desiderius 9 


“You may kiss only his hand,’ said my brother 
firmly. 

“ce Why? ”? 

“Because I say so,” was his stern reply. The unac- 
customed ring of his voice was quite alarming. I told 
him I would obey him; only let him take me to father. 

“Well, come along. Give me your hand.” 

Then taking my hand, he led me through two rooms.* 
In the third, grandmother met us. 

I saw no change in her countenance; only her thick 
white eyebrows were deeply contracted. 

Lorand went to her and softly whispered something 
to her which I did not hear; but I saw plainly that he 
indicated me with his eyes. Grandmother quietly indi- 
cated her consent or refusal with her head; then she 
came to me, took my head in her two hands, and looked 
long into my face, moving her head gently. Then she 
murmured softly: 

“Just the way he looked as a child.” 

“Then she threw herself face foremost upon the 
floor, sobbing bitterly. 

Lorand seized my hand and drew me with him into 
the fourth room. 

There lay the coffin. It was still open; only the 
winding-sheet covered the whole. 

Even to-day I have no power to describe the coffin in 
which I saw my father. Many know what that is; and 
no one would wish to learn from me. Only an old 
serving-maid was in the chamber; no one else was 
watching. My brother pressed my head to his bosom. 
And so we stood there a long time. 

Suddenly my brother told me to kiss my father’s 
hand, and then we must go. I obeyed him; he raised 
the edge of the winding-sheet; I saw two wax-like 
hands put together; two hands in which I could not 
have recognized those strong muscular hands, upon 
the shapely fingers of which in my younger days I 


*In Hungary the houses are built so that one room always 
leads into the other; the whole house can often be traversed 
without the necessity of going into a corridor or passage. 


10 Debts of Honor 


had so often played with the wonderful signet-rings, 
drawing them off one after the other. 

I kissed both hands. It was such a pleasure! Then 
I looked at my brother with agonized pleading. I 
longed so to kiss the face. He understood my look 
and drew me away. 

“Come with me. Don’t let us remain longer.” And 
that was such terrible agony to me! My brother told 
me to wait in my room, and not to move from it until 
he had ordered the carriage which was to take us away. 

“ Whither? ” I asked. 

“ Away to the country. Remain here and don’t go 
anywhere else.” And to keep me secure he locked the 
door upon me. 

Then I fell a-thinking. Why should we go to the 
country now that our father was lying dead? Why 
must I remain meanwhile in that room? Why do 
none of our acquaintances come to see us? Why do 
those who go about the house whisper so quietly? 
Why do they not toll the bell when so great a one lies 
dead in the house? 

All this distracted my brain entirely. To nothing 
could I give myself an answer, and no one came to 
me from whom I could have demanded the truth. 

Once, not long after (to me it seemed an age, 
though, if the truth be known, it was probably only a 
half-hour or so), I heard the old serving-maid, who 
had been watching in yonder chamber, tripping past 
the corridor window. Evidently some one else had 
taken her place. 

Her face was now as indifferent as it always was. 
Her eyes were cried out; but I am sure I had seen her 
weep every day, whether in good or in bad humor; it 
was all one with her. I addressed her through the 
window: 

“ Aunt Susie, come here.” 

“What do you want, dear little Desi?” 

“ Susie, tell me truly, why am I not allowed to kiss 
my father’s face?” 

The old servant shrugged her shoulders, and with 
cynical indifference replied: 


The Journal of Desiderius 11 


“Poor little fool. Why, because—because he has 
no head, poor fellow.” 

I did not dare to tell my brother on his return what 
I had heard from old Susie. 

I told him it was the cold air, when he asked why | 
trembled so. 

Thereupon he merely put my overcoat on, and said, 
“Tet us go to the carriage.” 

I asked him if our grandmother was not coming 
with us. He replied that she would remain behind. 
We two took our seats in one carriage; a second was 
waiting before the door. 

To me the whole incident seemed as a dream. The 
rainy, gloomy weather, the houses that flew past us, 
the people who looked wonderingly out of the win- 
dows, the one or two familiar faces that passed us by, 
and in their astonished gaze upon us forgot to greet us. 
It was as if each one of them asked himself: “ Why 
has the father of these boys no head?” Then the long 
poplar-trees at the end of the town, so bent by the wind 
as if they were bowing their heads under the weight 
of some heavy thought; and the murmuring waves 
under the bridge, across which we went, murmuring 
as if they too were taking counsel over some deep 
secret, which had so oft been intrusted to them, and 
which as yet no one had discovered—why was it that 
some dead people had no heads? Something prompted 
me so, to turn with this awful question to my 
brother. I overcame the demon, and did not ask him. 
Often children, who hold pointed knives before their 
eyes, or look down from a high bridge into the water, 
are told, ‘‘ Beware, or the devil will push you.” Such 
was my feeling in relation to this question. In my 
hand was the handle, the point was in my heart. I 
was sitting upon the brim, and gazing down into the 
whirlpool. Something called upon me to thrust my- 
self into the living reality, to lose my head in it. And 
yet I was able to restrain myself. During the whole 
journey neither my brother nor I spoke a word. 

When we arrived at our country-house our physi- 
cian met us, and told us that mother was even worse 


12 Debts of Honor 


than she had been; the sight of us would only aggra- 
vate her illness; so it would be good for us to remain 
in our room. 

Our grandmother arrived two hours after us. Her 
arrival was the signal for a universal whispering 
among the domestics, as if they would make ready for 
something extraordinary which the whole world must 
not know. Then we sat down to dinner quite unex- 
pectedly, far earlier than usual. No one could eat; we 
only gazed at each course in turn. After dinner my 
brother in his turn began to hold a whispered confer- 
ence with grandmother. As far as I could gather 
from the few words I caught, they were discussing 
whether he should take his gun with him or not. 
Lorand wished to take it, but grandmother objected. 
Finally, however, they agreed that he should take gun 
and cartridges, but should not load the weapon until 
he saw a necessity for it. 

In the mean while I staggered about from room 
to room. It seemed as if everybody had consid- 
erations of more importance than that of looking 
after me. 

In the afternoon, however, when I saw my brother 
making him ready for a journey, despair seized hold 
of me: 

“Take me with you.” 

“Why, you don’t even know where I am going.” 

“IT don’t mind; I will go anywhere, only take me 
with you; for I cannot remain all by myself.” 

“Well, I will ask grandmother.” 

My brother exchanged a few words with my grand- 
mother, and then came back to me. 

“You may come with me. Take your stick and 
coat.” 

He slung his gun on his shoulder and_ took his 
dog with him. 

Once again this thought agonized me afresh: 
“Father is dead, and we go for an afternoon’s shoot- 
ing, with grandmother’s consent as if nothing had hap- 
pened,” 


The Journal of Desiderius 53 


We went down through the gardens, all along the 
loam-pits; my brother seemed to be choosing a route 
where we should meet with no one. He kept the dog 
on the leash to prevent its wandering away. We went 
a long way, roaming among maize-fields and shrubs, 
without the idea once occurring to Lorand to take the 
gun down from his shoulder. He kept his eyes continu- 
ally on the ground, and would always silence the dog, 
when the animal scented game. 

Meantime we had left the village far behind us. I 
was already quite tired out, and yet I did not utter a 
syllable to suggest our returning. I would rather have 
gone to the end of the world than return home. 

It was already twilight when we reached a small 
poplar wood. Here my brother suggested a little rest. 
We sat down side by side on the trunk of a felled tree. 
Lorand offered me some cakes he had brought in 
his wallet for me. How it pained me that he thought 
I wanted anything to eat. Then he threw the cake to 
the hound. The hound picked it up and, disappearing 
behind the bushes, we heard him scratch on the ground 
as he buried it. Not even he wanted to eat. Next we 
watched the sunset. Our village church-tower was al- 
ready invisible, so far had we wandered, and yet I did 
not ask whether we should return. 

The weather became suddenly gloomy; only after 
sunset did the clouds open, that the dying sun might 
radiate the heavens with its storm-burdened red fire. 
The wind suddenly rose. I remarked to my brother 
that an ugly wind was blowing, and he answered that 
it was good for us. How this great wind could be 
good for us, I was unable to discover. 

When later the heavens gradually changed from fire 
red to purple, from purple to gray, from gray to black, 
Lorand loaded his gun, and let the hound loose. He 
took my hand. I must now say not a single word, 
but remain motionless. In this way we waited long 
that boisterous night. 

I racked my brain to discover the reason why we 
were there. 


14 Debts of Honor 


On a sudden our hound began to whine in the dis- 
tance—such a whine as I had never yet heard. 

Some minutes later he came reeling back to us; 
whimpering and whining, he leaped up at us, licked 
our hands, and then raced off again. 

“ Now let us go,” said Lorand, shouldering his gun. 

Hurriedly we followed the hound’s track, and soon 
came out upon the high-road. 

In the gloom a hay-cart drawn by four oxen, was 
quietly making its way to its destination. 

“God be praised!” said the old farm-laborer, as he 
recognized my brother. 

“For ever and ever.” 

After a slight pause my brother asked him if there 
was anything wrong? 

“You needn't fear, it will be all right. 

Thereupon we quietly sauntered along behind the 
hay-wagon. 

My brother uncovered his head, and so proceeded on 
his way bareheaded; he said he was very warm. We 
walked silently for a distance until the old laborer came 
back to us. 

“Not tired, Master Desi ?” he asked; “you might 
take a seat on the cart.” 

“What are you thinking of, John ?” said Lorand; 
“on this cart?” 

“True; true, indeed,” said the aged servant. Then 
he quietly crossed himself, and went forward to the 
oxen. 

When we came near the village, old John again 
came toward us. 

“Tt will be better now if the young gentlemen go 
home through the gardens; it will be much easier for 
me to get through the village alone.” 

“Do you think they are still on guard?” asked 
Lorand. 

“Of course they know already. One cannot take 
it amiss; the poor fellows have twice in ten years had 
their hedges broken down by the hail.” 

“ Stupidity!” answered my brother. 


The Journal of Desiderius re 


‘May be,” sighed the old serving-man. “ Still the 
pocr man thinks so.” 

Lorand nudged the old retainer so that he would not 
speak before me. 

My brain became only more confused thereat. 

Lorand told him that we would soon pass through 
the gardens; however, after John had advanced a good 
distance with the cart we followed in his tracks again, 
keeping steadily on until we came to the first row of 
houses beginning the village. Here my brother be- 
gan to thread his way more cautiously, and in the dark 
I heard distinctly the click of the trigger as he cocked 
his gun. 

The cart proceeded quietly before us to the end of 
the long village street. 

Above the workhouse about six men armed with 
pitchforks met us. 

My brother said we must make our way behind a 
hedge, and bade me hold our dog’s mouth lest he 
should bark when the others passed. 

The pitchforked guards passed near the cart, and 
advanced before us too. I heard how the one said to 
the other: 

“ Faith, that is the reason this cursed wind is blowing 
so furiously!” 

“ That” was the reason! What was the reason? 

As they passed, my brother took my hand and said: 
“ Now let us hasten, that we may be home before the 
wagon.” 

Therewith he ran with me across a long cottage- 
court, lifted me over a hedge, climbing after me him- 
self; then through two or three more strange gardens, 
everywhere stepping over the hedges; and at last we 
reached our own garden. 

But, in Heaven’s name, had we committed some sin, 
that we ran thus, skulking from hiding-place to hiding- 
place? 

.As we reached the courtyard, the wagon was just 
entering. Three retainers waited for it in the yard, 
and immediately closed the gate after it. 


16 Debts of Honor 


Grandmother stood outside on the terrace and kissed 
us when we arrived. 

Again there followed a short whispering between 
my brother and the domestics; whereupon the latter 
seized pitchforks and began to toss down the hay from 
the wain. 

Could they not do so by daylight? 

Grandmother sat down on a bench on the terrace, 
and drew my head to her bosom. Lorand leaned his 
elbows upon the rail of the terrace and watched the 
work. , 

The hay was tossed into a heap and the high 
wind drove the chaff on to the terrace, but no one told 
the servants to be more careful. 

This midnight work was, for me, so mysterious. 

Only once I saw that Lorand turned round as he 
stood, and began to weep; thereupon grandmother 
rose, and they fell each upon the other’s breast. 

I clutched their garments and gazed up at them 
trembling. Not a single lamp burned upon the ter- 
race. 

“Sh!” whispered grandmother, “don’t weep so 
loudly,” she was herself choking with sobs. “ Come, let 
us go.” 

With that she took my hand, and, leaning upon my 
brother’s arm, came down with us into the courtyard, 
down to the wagon, which stood before the garden gate. 
Two or more heaps of straw hid it from the eye; it 
was visible only when we reached the bottom of the 
wagon. 

On that wagon lay the coffin of my father. 

So this it was that in the dead of night we had 
stealthily brought into the village, that we had in so 
skulking a manner escorted, and had so concealed; and 
of which we had spoken in whispers. This it was that 
we had wept over in secret—my father’s coffin. The 
four retainers lifted it from the wagon, then carried it 
on their shoulders toward the garden. We went after 
it, with bared heads and silent tongues. 

A tiny rivulet flowed through our garden; near this » 


The Journal of Desiderius 17 


rivulet was a little round building, whose gaudy door 
I had never seen open. 

From my earliest days, when I was unable to rise 
from the ground if once I sat down, the little round 
building had always been in my mind. 

I had always loved it, always feared to be near it; 
I had so longed to know what might be within it. As 
a little knickerbockered child I would pick the colored 
gravel-stones from the mortar, and play with them in 
the dust; and if perchance one stone struck the iron 
door, I would run away from the echo the blow pro- 
duced. 

In my older days it was again only around this build- 
ing that I would mostly play, and would remark that 
upon its fagade were written great letters, on which 
the ivy, that so actively clambered up the walls, 
scarcely grew. At that time how I longed to know 
what those letters could mean! 

When the first holiday after I had made the ac- 
quaintance of those letters came, and they took me 
again to our country-seat, one after another I spelled 
out the ancient letters of the inscription on that mys- 
terious little house, and pieced them together in my 
mind. But I could not arrive at their meaning; for 
they were written in some foreign tongue. 

Many, many times I wrote those words in the dust 
even before I understood them: 


“NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM.” 


I strove to reach one year earlier than my school- 
fellows the so-called “ student class,’ where Latin was 
taught. 

My most elementary acquaintance with the Latin 
tongue had always for its one aim the discovery of the 
meaning of that saying. Finally I solved the mys- 
tery— 

“Lead us not into temptation.” It is a sentence of 
the Lord’s Prayer, which I myself had repeated a 


18 Debts of Honor 


thousand times; and now I knew its meaning still less 
than before. 

And still more began to come to me a kind of mys- 
terious abhorrence of that building, above whose door 
was to be found the prayer that God might guard us 
against temptations. 

Perhaps this was the very dwelling of temptations? 

We know what children understand by “ tempta- 
tions.” 

To-day I saw this door open, and knew that this 
building was our family vault. 

This door, which hitherto I had only seen covered 
with ivy, was now swung open, and through the open 
porch glittered the light of a lamp. The two great 
Virginia creepers which were planted before the crypt 
hid the glass so that it was not visible from the garden. 
The brightness was only for us. 

The four men set the coffin down on the steps; we 
followed after it. : 

So this was that house where temptations dwell; 
and all our prayers were in vain; “lead us not into 
temptation.” Yet to temptation we were forced to 
come. Down a few steps we descended, under a low, 
plastered arch, which glittered green from the moist- 
ure of the earth. In the wall were built deep niches, 
four on either side, and six of them were already filled, 
Before them stood slabs of marble, with inscriptions 
telling of those who had fallen asleep. The four 
servants placed the coffin they had brought on their 
shoulders in the seventh niche; then the aged retainer 
clasped his hands, and with simple devotion repeated 
the Lord’s Prayer; the other three men softly mur- 
mured after him: “Amen. Amen.” 

Then they left us to ourselves. 

Grandmother all this while had without a word, 
without a movement, stood in the depth of the crypt, 
holding our hands within her own; but when we were 
alone, in a frenzy she darted to the coffined niche and 
flung herself to the ground before it. 

Oh! I cannot tell what she said as she raved there. 


The Journal of Desiderius 19 


She wept and sobbed, flinging reproaches—at the 
dead! She scolded, as one reproves a child that has 
cut itself with a knife. She asked why he did fhis. 
And again she heaped grave calumny upon him, called 
him coward, wretch, threatened him with God, with 
God’s wrath, and with eternal damnation ;—then asked 
pardon of him, babbled out words of conciliation, 
called him back, called him dear, sweet, and good; re- 
lated to him what a faithful, dear, loving wife waited 
at home, with his two sweet children,—how could he 
forget them? Then with gracious, reverent words 
begged him to turn Christian, to come to God, to learn 
to believe, to hope, to love; to trust to the boundless 
mercy; to take his rest in the paths of Heaven. And 
then she uttered a scream, tore the tresses of her dove- 
white hair, and cursed God. Methought it was the 
night of the Last Judgment. 

Every fire-breathing monster of the Revelation, the 
very disgorging of the dead from the rent earth, were 
as naught to me compared with the terror which that 
hour heaped upon my head. 

’Twas hither we had brought father, who died sud- 
denly, in the prime of life. Hither we had brought 
him, in stealth, and slinking; here we had concealed 
him without any Christian ceremony, without psalm or 
toll of bell; no priest’s blessing followed him to his 
grave, as it follows even the poorest beggar; and now 
here, in the house of the dead, grandmother had cursed 
the departed, and anathematized the other world, on 
whose threshold we stand, and in her mad despair was 
knocking at the door of the mysterious country as she 
beat upon the coffin-lid with her fist. 

Now, in my mature age, when my head, too, is almost 
covered with winter’s snow, I see that our presence 
there was essential; drop by drop we were to drain to 
the dregs this most bitter cup, which I would had 
never fallen to our lot! 

Grandmother fell down before the niche and laid her 
forehead upon the coffin’s edge; her long white hair 
fell trailing over her. 


20 Debts of Honor 


Long, very long, she lay, and then she rose; her 
face was no more distorted, her eyes no longer filled 
with tears. She turned toward us and said we should 
remain a little longer here. 

She herself sat down upon the lowest step of the 
stone staircase, and placed the lamp in front of her, 
while we two remained standing before her. 

She looked not at us, only peered intensely and con- 
tinuously with her large black eyes into the light of 
the lamp, as if she would conjure therefrom something 
that had long since passed away. 

All at once she seized our hands, and drew us to- 
ward her to the staircase. 

“You are the scions of a most unhappy house, every 
member of which dies by his own hand.” 

So this was that secret that hung, like a veil of 
mourning before the face of every adult member of 
our family! We continuously saw our elders so, as 
if some mist of melancholy moved between us; and 
this was that mist. 

“This was the doom of God, a curse of man upon 
us !” continued grandmother, now no longer with ter- 
rifying voice. Besides, she spoke as calmly as if she 
were merely reciting to us the history of some strange 
family. “ Your great-grandfather, Job Aronffy, he 
who lies in the first niche, bequeathed this terrible in- 
heritance to his heirs; and it was a brother’s hand that 
hurled this curse at his head. Oh, this is an unhappy 
earth on which we dwell! In other happy lands there 
are murderous quarrels between man and man; 
brothers part in wrath from one another; the ‘ mine 
and thine,* jealousy, pride, envy, sow tares among 
them. But this accursed earth of ours ever creates 
bloodshed; this damned soil, which we are wont to 
call our ‘ dear homeland,’ whose pure harvest we call 
love of home, whose tares we call treason, while every 
one thinks his own harvest the pure one, his brother’s 


*That is, the disputes as to the superiority of each other’s 
possessions, or as to each other’s right to possession. 


The Journal of Desiderius 21 


the tares, and, for that, brother slays brother! Oh! 
you cannot understand it yet. 

“Your great-grandfather lived in those days when 
great men thought that what is falling in decay must 
be built afresh. Great contention arose therefrom, 
much knavery, much disillusion; finally the whole had 
to be wiped out. 

“Job’s parents educated him at academies in Ger- 
many; there his soul became filled with foreign 
freedom of thought; he became an enthusiastic parti- 
san of common human liberty. When he returned, 
this selfsame idea was in strife with an equally great 
one, national feeling. He joined his fortunes with the 
former idea, as he considered it the just one. In what 
patriots called relics of antiquity he saw only the vices 
of the departed. His elder brother stood face to face 
with him; they met on the common field of strife, 
and then began between them the unending feud. 
They had been such good brothers, never had they 
deserted each other in time of trouble; and on this 
thorn-covered field they must swear eternal enmity. 
Your great-grandfather belonged to the victorious, his 
brother to the conquered army. But the victory was 
not sweet. 

“Job gained a powerful, high position, he basked in 
the sunshine of power, but he lost that which was— 
nothing; merely the smiles of his old acquaintances. 
He was a seigneur, from afar they greeted him, but 
did not hurry to take his hand; and those who of yore 
at times of meeting would kiss his face from right and 
left, now after his change of dignity would stand be- 
fore him, and bow their greetings askance with cold 
obeisance. Then there was one man who did not even 
bow, but sought a meeting only that he might provoke 
him with his obstinate sullenness, and gaze upon him 
with his piercing eyes—his own brother. Yet they 
were both honorable, good men, true Christians, bene- 
factors of the poor, the darlings of their family, and 
once so fond of each other! Oh, this sorrowful earth 
here below us ! 


22 Debts of Honor 


“Then this new order of things that had been built 
up for ten years, fell into ruins, and Joseph II. on his 
death-bed drew a red line through his whole life-work ; 
what had happened till then faded into mere remem- 
brance. 

“ The earth re-echoed with the shouts of rejoicing— 
this earth, this bitter earth. Job for his part wended 
his way to the Turkish bath in Buda, and, that he 
might meet with his brother no more, opened his 
arteries and bled to death. 

“Yet they were both good Christians; true men in 
life, faithful to honor, no evil-doers, no godless men; 
in heart and deed they worshipped God; but still the 
one brother took his own life, that he might meet no 
more with the other; and the other said of him: ‘ He 
deserved his fate.’ 

“Oh, this earth that is drenched with the flow of 
our tears !” 

Here grandmother paused, as if she would collect 
in her mind the memories of a greater and heavier 
affliction. 

Not a sound reached us down there—even the crypt 
door was closed; the moaning of the wind did not 
reach so far; no sound, only the beating of the hearts 
of three living beings. 

Grandmother sought with her eyes the date written 
upon the arch, which the moisture that had sweated 
out from the lime had rendered illegible. 

“Tn this year they built this house of sorrow. Job 
was the first inhabitant thereof. Just as now, with- 
out priest, without toll of bell, hidden in a wooden 
chest of other form, they brought him here; and with 
him began that melancholy line of victims, whose 
legacy was that one should draw the other after him. 
The shedding of blood by one’s own hand is a ter- 
rible legacy. That blood besprinkles children and 
brothers. That malicious tempter who directed the 
father’s hand to strike the sharp knife home into his 
own heart stands there in ambush forever behind his 
successors’ backs; he is ever whispering to them; 


The Journal of Desiderius 23 


“Thy father was a suicide, thy brother himself sought 
out death; over thy head, too, stands the sentence; 
wherever thou runnest from before it, thou canst not 
save thyself; thou carriest with thyself thy own mur- 
derer in thine own right hand.’ He tempts and lures 
the undecided ones with blades whetted to brilliancy, 
with guns at full cock, with poison-drinks of awful 
hue, with deep-flowing streams. Oh, it is indeed 
horrible! 

“And nothing keeps them back! they never think 
of the love, the everlasting sorrow of those whom 
they leave behind here to sorrow over their mel- 
ancholy death. They never think of Him whom 
they will meet there beyond the grave, and who will 
ask them: ‘Why did you come before I summoned 
you?’ 

“In vain was written upon the front of this house 
of sorrow, ‘Lead us not into temptation.’ You can 
see. Seven have already taken up their abode here. 
All the seven have cast at the feet of Providence that 
treasure, an account of which will be asked for in 
Heaven. 

“Job left three children: Akos, Gero, and Kalman. 
Akos was the eldest, and he married earliest. He 
was a good man, but thoughtless and passionate. One 
summer he lost his whole fortune at cards and was 
ruined. But even poverty did not drive him to de- 
spair. He said to his wife and children: ‘ Till now 
we were our own masters; now we shall be the serv- 
ants of others. Labor is not a disgrace. I shall go 
and act as steward to some landowner.’ The other two 
brothers, when they heard of their elder’s misfortune, 
conferred together, went to him, and said: ‘ Brother, 
still two-thirds of our father’s wealth is left; come, let 
us divide it anew.’ 

“ And each of them gave him a third of his property, 
that they might be on equal terms again. 

“ That night Akos shot himself in the head. 

“The stroke of misfortune he could bear, but 
the kindness of his brothers set him so against 


24 Debts of Honor 


himself that when he was freed from the cares of 
life he did not wish to know further the enjoyments 
thereof. 

‘Akos left behind two children, a girl and a boy. 

“The girl had lived some sixteen summers—very 
beautiful, very good. Look! there is her tomb: 
‘Struck down in her sixteenth year!’ She loved; be- 
came unhappy; and died. 

“You cannot understand it yet! 

“So already three lay in the solitary vault. 

“Gero was your grandfather—my good, never-to- 
be-forgotten husband. No tear wells in my eyes as 
I think of him; every thought that leads me back to 
him is sweet to me; and I know that he was a man of 
high principles; that every deed of his—his last deed, 
too—was proper and right, it is as it should be. It 
happened before my very eyes; and I did not seize 
his hand to stay his action.” 

How my old grandmother’s eyes flashed in this mo- 
ment! A glowing warmth, hitherto unknown to me, 
seemed to pervade my whole being; some glimmering 
ray of enthusiasm—I knew not what! How the dead 
can inspire one with enthusiasm! 

“Your grandfather was the very opposite of his own 
father; as it is likely to happen in hundreds, nay, in 
thousands of cases that the sons restore to the East the 
fame and glory that their fathers gathered in the West. 

“ But you don’t understand that, either! 

“Gero was in union with those who, under the lead- 
ership of a priest of high rank, wished at the end of the 
last century, to prepare the country for another century. 
No success crowned their efforts; they fell with him— 
and fell without a head. One afternoon your grand- 
father was sitting in the family circle—it was toward 
the end of dinner—when a strange officer entered in the 
midst of us, and, with a face utterly incapable of an ex- 
pression of remorse, informed Gero that he had orders 
to put him under guard. Geré displayed a calm face, 
merely begged the stranger to allow him to drink his 
black coffee. His request was granted without demur. 


The Journal of Desiderius 25 


My husband calmly stirred his coffee, and entered in- 
to conversation with the stranger, who did not seem to 
be of an angry disposition. Indeed, he assured my hus- 
band that no harm would come of this incident. My 
husband peacefully sipped his coffee. 

“Then having finished it, he put down his cup, 
wiped his beautiful long beard, turned to me, drew 
me to his breast, and kissed me on both cheeks, not 
touching my mouth. ‘Educate our boy well,’ he 
stammered. Then, turning to the stranger: ‘ Sir, 
pray do not trouble yourself further on my account. 
I am a dead man; you will be welcome at my 
funeral.’ 

“Two minutes later he breathed his last. And I 
had clearly seen, for I sat beside him, how with his 
thumb he opened the seal of the ring he wore on his 
little finger, how he shook a white powder therefrom 
into the cup standing before him, how he stirred it 
slowly till it dissolved, and then sipped it up little by 
little; but I could not stay his hand, could not call to 
him, ‘ Don’t do it! Cling to life!’ ” 

Grandmother was staring before her, with the 
ecstatic smile of madness. Oh! I was so frightened 
that even now my mind wanders at the remembrance. 

This smile of madness is so contagious! Slowly 
nodding with her gray head, she again fell all in a 
heap. It was apparent that some time must elapse be- 
fore this recollection, once risen in her mind, could 
settle to rest again. After what seemed to us hours 
she slowly raised herself again and continued her tragic 
narrative. 

“He was already the fourth dweller in this house 
of temptations. 

.“ After his death his brother Kalman came to join 
our circle. To the end he remained single; very early 
in life he was deceived, and from that moment became 
a hater of mankind. 

“His gloom grew year by year more incurable; he 
avoided every distraction, every gathering; his favorite 
haunt was this garden—this place here. He planted 


26 Debts of Honor 


the beautiful juniper-trees before the door; such trees 
were in those days great rarities. 

“He made no attempt to conceal from us—in fact, 
he often declared openly to us that his end could be 
none other than his brothers’ had been. 

“The pistol, with which Akos had shot himself, he 
kept by him as a souvenir, and in sad jest declared it 
was his inheritance. 

“Here he would wander for hours together in 
reverie, in melancholy, until the falling snow confined 
him to his room. He detested the winter greatly. 
When the first snowflake fell, his ill-humor turned to 
the agony of despair; he loathed the atmosphere of his 
rooms and everything to be found within the four 
walls. We so strongly advised him to winter in Italy, 
that he finally gave in to the proposal. We carefully 
packed his trunks; ordered his post-chaise. One 
morning, as everything stood ready for departure, he 
said that, before going for this long journey, he would 
once again take leave of his brothers. In his travel- 
ling-suit he came down here to the vault, and closed 
the iron door after him, enjoining that no one should 
disturb him. So we waited behind; and, as hour after 
hour passed by and still he did not appear, we went 
after him. We forced open the closed door, and there 
found him lying in the middle of the tomb—he had 
gone to the country where there is no more winter. 

“He had shot himself in the heart, with the same 
pistol as his brother, as he had foretold. 

“Only two male members of the family remained: 
my son and the son of Akos. L6rincz—that was the 
name of Akos’ son—was reared too kindly by his poor, 
good mother; she loved him excessively, and thereby 
spoiled him. The boy became very fastidious and 
sensitive. He was eleven years old when his mother 
noticed that she could not command his obedience. 
Once the child played some prank, a mere trifle; how 
can a child of eleven years commit any great offence? 
His mother thought she must rebuke him. The boy 
laughed at the rebuke; he could not believe his mother 


The Journal of Desiderius 27 


was angry; then, in consequence, his mother boxed 
his ears. The boy left the room; behind the garden 
there was a fishpond; in that he drowned himself. 

“Well, is it necessary to take one’s life for such a 
thing? For one blow, given by the soft hand of a 
mother to a little child, to take such a terrible revenge! 
to cut the thread of life, which as yet he knew not; 
How many children are struck by a mother, and the 
next day received into her bosom, with mutual forgive- 
ness and a renewal of reciprocal love? Why, a blow 
from a mother is merely one proof of a mother’s love. 
But it brought him to take his life. ” 

The cold perspiration stood out in beads all over me. 

That bitterness I, too, feel in myself. I also ama 
child, just as old as that other was; I have never yet 
been beaten. Once my parents were compelled to re- 
buke me for wanton petulance; and from head to foot 
I was pervaded through and through by one raving 
idea: “If they beat me I should take my own life.” 
So I am also infected with the hereditary disease—the 
awful spirit is holding out his hand over me; cap- 
tured, accursed, he is taking me with him. I am 
betrayed to him! Only instead of thrashing me, 
they had punished me with fasting fare; otherwise, I 
also should already be in this house. 

Grandmother clasped her hands across her knees 
and continued her story. 

“Your father was older at the time of this event— 
seventeen years of age. Ever since his birth the 
world has been rife with discord and revolutions; 
all the nations of the world pursued a bitter warfare 
one against another. I scarce expected my only son 
would live to be old enongh to join the army. Thither, 
thither, where death with a scythe in both hands was 
cutting down the ranks of the armed warriors; 
thither, where the children of weeping mothers were 
being trampled on by horses’ hoofs; thither, thither, 
where they were casting into a common grave the 
mangled remains of darling  first-borns; only not 
hither, not into this awful house, into these horrible 


28 Debts of Honor 


ranks of tempting spectres! Yes, I rejoiced when 
I knew that he was standing before the foe’s cannons; 
and when the news of one great conflict after another 
spread like a dark cloud over the country, with sorrow- 
ful tranquillity, | lay in wait for the lightning-stroke 
which, bursting from the cloud, should dart into 
my heart with the news: ‘Thy son is dead! They 
have slain him, as a hero is slain!’ But it was not 
so. The wars ceased. My son returned. 

“No, it is not true; don’t believe what I said —‘ If 
only the news of his death had come instead!’ 

“No; surely I rejoiced, surely I wept in my joy and 
happiness, when I could clasp him anew in my arms, 
and I blessed God for not having taken him away. Yet, 
why did I rejoice? Why did I triumph before the 
world, saying, ‘See, what a fine, handsome son I have! 
a dauntless warrior, fame and honor he has brought 
home with him. My pride—my gladness? Now they 
lie here! What did I gain with him—he, too, followed 
the rest! He, too! he, whom I loved best of all—he 
whose every Paradise was here on earth!” 

My brother wept; I shivered with cold. 

‘Then suddenly, like a lunatic, grandmother seized 
our hands, and leaped up from her sitting-place. 

“Look yonder! there is still one empty niche—room 
for one coffin. Look well at that place; then go forth 
into the world\and think upon what the mouth of this 
dark hollow said. 

“T had thought of making you swear here never to 
forsake God, never to continue the misfortunes of this 
family; but why this oath? That some one should 
take with him to the other world one sin more, in that 
in the hour of his death he forswore himself? What 
oath would bind him who says: ‘ The mercy of God I 
desire not’ ? 

“But instead, I brought you here and related you 
the history of your family. Later you shall know still 
more therefrom, that is yet secret and obscure before 
you. Now look once more around you, and then—let 
_us go out. 


The Journal of Desiderius 29 


“Now you know what is the meaning of this 
melancholy house, whose door the ivy enters with 
the close of a man’s life from time to time. You know 
that the family brings its suicides hither to burial, be- 
cause elsewhere they have no place. But you know 
also that in this awful sleeping-room there is space for 
only one person more, and the second will find no other 
resting-place than the grave-ditch! ” 

With these words grandmother passionately thrust 
us both from her. In terror we fell into each other’s 
arms before her frenzied gaze. 

Then, with a shrill cry, she rushed toward us and 
embraced us both with all the might of a lunatic; wept 
and gasped, till finally she fainted utterly away. 


CHAPTER II 
THE GIRL SUBSTITUTE* 


A PLEASANT old custom was then in fashion in our 
town: the interchange of children,—perhaps it is in 
fashion still. In our many-tongued fatherland one 
town is German-speaking, the other Magyar-speak- 
ing, and, being brothers, after all to understand 
each other was a necessity. Germans must learn 
Magyar and Magyars, German. And peace is re- 
stored. 

So a method of temporarily exchanging children 
grew up: German parents wrote to Magyar towns, 
Magyar parents to German towns, to the respective 
school directors, to ask if there were any pupils who 
could be interchanged. In this manner one child was 
given for another, a kind, gentle, womaniy thought! 

The child left home, father, mother, brother, only to 
find another home among strangers: another mother, 
other brothers and sisters, and his absence did not 
leave a void at home; child replaced child; and if the 
adopted mother devoted a world of tenderness to the 
pilgrim, it was with the idea that her own was being 
thus treated in the far distance; for a mother’s 
love cannot be bought at a price but only gained by love. 

It was an institution that only a woman’s thought 
could found: so different from that frigid system in- 
vented by men which founded nunneries, convents, 
and closed colleges for the benefit of susceptible young 


*In former days it was the custom for a Magyar and a 
German family to interchange children, with a view to their 
learning the two languages perfectly. So Fanny Fromm is 
interchanged with Desiderius Aronffy. 


3c 


The Girl Substitute a 


hearts where all memory of family life was perma- 
nently wiped out of their minds. 

After that unhappy day, which, like the unmovable 
star, could never go so far into the distance as to be 
out of sight, grandmother more than once said to us 
in the presence of mother, that it would not be good 
for us to remain in this town; we must be sent some- 
where else. 

Mother long opposed the idea. She did not wish to 
part from us. Yet the doctors advised the same course. 
When the spasms seized her, for days we were not al- 
lowed to visit her, as it made her condition far worse. 

At last she gave her consent, and it was decided that 
we two should be sent to Pressburg. My brother, who 
was already too old to be exchanged, went to the home 
of a Privy Councillor, who was paid for taking him in, 
and my place was to be taken by a still younger child 
than myself, by a little German girl, Fanny, the daugh- 
ter of Henry Fromm, baker. Grandmother was to 
take us in a carriage—in those days in Hungary we had 
only heard rumors of steamboats—and to bring the 
girl substitute back with her. 

For a week the whole household sewed, washed, 
ironed and packed for us; we were supplied with win- 
ter and summer clothing: on the last day provisions 
were prepared for our journey, as if we had in- 
tended to make a voyage to the end of the world, and 
in the evening we took supper in good time, that we 
might rise early, as we had to start before daybreak. 
That was my first departure from my home. Many 
a time since then have I had to say adieu to what was 
dearest to me; many sorrows, more than I could ex- 
press, have afflicted me: but that first parting caused 
me the greatest pain of all, as is proved by the fact that 
after so long an interval I remember it so well. 
In the solitude of my own chamber, I bade farewell sep- 
arately to all those little trifles that surrounded me: 
God bless the good old clock that hast so oft 
awakened me. Beautiful raven, whom I taught to 
speak and to say “ Lorand,” on whom wilt thou play 


32 Debts of Honor 


thy sportive tricks? Poor old doggy, maybe thou wilt 
not be living when I return? Forsooth old Susie her- 
self will say to me, “I shall never see you again Mas- 
ter Desi.” And till now I always thought I was angry 
with Susie; but now | remark that it will be hard to 
leave her. 

And my dear mother, the invalid, and grandmother, 
already so grey-haired! 

Thus the bitter strains swept onward along the 
strings of my soul, from lifeless objects to living, from 
favorite animals to human acquaintances, and then 
to those with whom we were bound soul to soul, finally 
dragging one with them to the presence of the dead 
and buried. I was sorely troubled by the thought that 
we were not allowed to enter, even for one moment, 
that solitary house, round the door of which the ivy 
was entwining anew. We might have whispered 
“God be with thee! I have come to see thee!” I must 
leave the place without being able to say to him a single 
word of love. And perhaps he would know without 
words. Perhaps the only joy of that poor soul, who 
could not lie in a consecrated chamber, who could not 
find the way to heaven because he had not waited till 
the guardian angel came for him, was when he saw 
that his sons love him still. 

“Lorand, I cannot sleep, because I have not been 
able to take my leave of that house beside the stream.” 

My brother sighed and turned in his bed. 

My whole life long I have been a sound sleeper 
(what child is not?) but never did it seem such 
‘a burden to rise as on the morning of our de- 
parture. Two days later a strange child would be 
sleeping in that bed. Once more we met together at 
breakfast, which we had to eat by candle-light as the 
day had not yet dawned. 

Dear mother often rose from her seat to kiss and 
embrace Lorand, overwhelmed him with caresses, and 
made him promise to write much; if anything hap- 
pened to him, he must write and tell it at once, and 
must always consider that bad news would afflict two 


The Girl Substitute 33 


hearts at home. She only spoke to me to bid me drink 
my coffee warm, as the morning air would be chilly. 

Grandmother, too, concerned herself entirely with 
Lorand: they enquired whether he had all he required 
for the journey, whether he had taken his certificates 
with him—and a thousand other matters. I was rather 
surprised than jealous at all this, for as a rule the 
youngest son gets all the petting. 

When our carriage drove up we took our travelling 
coats and said adieu in turn to the household. Mother, 
leaning on Lorand’s shoulder, came with us to the 
gate whispering every kind of tender word to him; 
thrice she embraced and kissed him. And then came 
my turn. 

She embraced me and kissed me on the cheek, then 
tremblingly whispered in my ear these words: 

“My darling boy,—take care of your brother Lo- 
rand!” I take care of Lorand? the child of the young 
man?’ the weak of the strong? the later born guide the 
elder. The whole journey long this idea distracted me, 
and I could not explain it to myself. 

Of the impressions of the journey I retain no very 
clear recollections: I think I slept very much in the 
carriage. The journey to Pressburg lasted from early 
morning till late evening; only as twilight came on did 
a new thought begin to keep me awake, a thought to 
which as yet I had paid no attention: “ What kind of 
a child could it be, for whom I was now being ex- 
changed? Who was to usurp my place at table, in my 
bed-room, and in my mother’s heart? Was she small 
or large? beautiful or ugly? obedient or contrary? had 
she brothers or sisters, to whom I was to be a brother? 
was she as much afraid of me as I was of her? ” 

For I was very much afraid of her. 

Naturally, I dreaded the thought of the child who 
was meeting me at the cross-roads with the avowed 
intention of taking my place as my mother’s child, 
giving me instead her own parents. Were they 
reigning princes, still the loss would be mine. I con- 
fess that I felt a kind of sweet bitterness in the idea 


34 Debts of Honor 


that my substitute might be some dull, malicious crea- 
ture, whose actions would often cause mother to re- 
member me. But if, on the contrary, she were some 
quiet, angelic soul, who would soon steal my mother’s 
love from me! In every respect I trembled with fear 
of that creature who had been born that she might be 
exchanged for me. 

Towards evening grandmother told us that the town 
which we were going to was visible. I was sit- 
ting with my back to the horses, and so I was obliged 
to turn round in order to see. In the distance I could 
see the four-columned white skeleton of a building, 
which was first apparent to the eye. 

“What a gigantic charnel-house,” I remarked to 
grandmother. 

“Tt is no charnel-house, my child, but it is the ruin 
of the citadel of (Pressburg) Pozsony.” * 

A curious ruin it is. This first impression ever re- 
mained in my mind: I regarded it as a charnel-house. 

It was quite late when we entered the town, which 
was very large compared to ours. I had never seen 
such elegant display in shop-windows before and it 
astonished me as I noticed that there were paved side- 
walks reserved for pedestrians. They must be all fine 
lords who live in this city. 

Mr. Fromm, the baker, to whose house I was to be 
taken, had informed us that we need not go to an hotel 
as he had room for all of us, and would gladly welcome 
us, especially as the expense of the journey was borne 
by us. We found his residence by following the writ- 
ten address. He owned a fine four-storied house in the 
Firsten allee,t with his open shop in front on the 
sign of which peaceful lions were painted in gold hold- 
ing rolls and cakes between their teeth. 

Mr. Fromm himself was waiting for us outside his 
shop door, and hastened to open the carriage door him- 


* Pozsony. A town in Hungary is called by the Germans 
Pressburg. 
+ Princes avenue. 


The Girl Substitute 35 


self. He was a round-faced, portly little man, with a 
short black moustache, black eyebrows, and close- 
cropped, thick, flour-white hair. The good fellow helped 
grandmother to alight from the carriage: shook hands 
with Lorand, and began to speak to them in German: 
when I alighted, he put his hand on my head with a 
peculiar smile: 

‘iste puer?” 

Then he patted me on the cheeks. 

“ Bonus, bonus.” 

His addressing me in Latin had two advan- 
tages; firstly, as I could not speak German, nor he 
Magyar, this use of a neutral tongue removed all 
suspicions of our being deaf and dumb; secondly, it 
at once inspired me with a genuine respect for the 
honest fellow, who had dabbled in the sciences, and 
had, beyond his technical knowledge of his own busi- 
ness, some acquaintance with the language of Cicero. 
Mr. Fromm made room for grandmother and Lorand 
to pass before him up a narrow stone staircase, while 
he kept his hand continuously on my head, as if that 
were the part of me by which he could best hold me. 

“Veni puer. Hic puer secundus, filius meus.” 

So there was a boy in the house, a new terror for 
me. 

“ Est studiosus.” 

What, that boy! That was good news: we could 
go to school together. 

“ Meus filius magnus asinus.”’ 

That was a fine acknowledgment from a father. 

“ Nescit pensum nunquam scit. ” 

Then he discontinued to speak of the young student, 
and pantomimically described something, from which 
I gathered that “ meus filius,’’ on this occasion was con- 
demned to starve, until he had learnt his lessons, and 
was confined to his room. 

This was no pleasant idea to me. 

Well, and what about “ mea filia? ” 

I had never seen a house that was like Mr. Fromm’s 
inside. Our home was only one-storied, with wide 


36 Debts of Honor 


rooms, and broad corridors, a courtyard and a gar- 
den: here we had to enter first by a narrow hall: then 
to ascend a winding stair, that would not admit two 
abreast. Then followed a rapid succession of small 
and large doors, so that when we came out upon the 
balconied corridor, and | gazed down into the deep, 
narrow courtyard, I could not at all imagine how I had 
reached that point, and still less how I could ever find 
my way out. “ Father”? Fromm led us directly from 
the corridor into the reception room, where two can- 
dles were burning (two in our honor), and the table 
laid for “‘ gouter.”’ It seemed they had expected us 
earlier. Two women were seated at the window, 
Mrs. Fromm and her mother. Mrs. Fromm was 
a tall slender person; she had grey curls (I don’t 
know why I should not call them ‘ Schneckles,” for 
that is their name) in front, large blue eyes, a sharp 
German nose, a prominent chin and a wart below her 
mouth. 

The “ Gross-mamma” was the exact counterpart 
of Mrs. Fromm, only about thirty years older, a little 
more slender, and sharper in feature: she had also 
grey “ Schneckles ”»—though I did not know until ten 
years later that they were not her own:—she too had 
that wart, though in her case it was on the chin. 

In a little low chair was sitting that certain person- 
age with whom they wished to exchange me. 

Fanny was my junior by a year:—she resembled 
neither father nor mother, with the exception that the 
family wart, in the form of a little brown freckle, was 
imprinted in the middle of her left cheek. During the 
whole time that elapsed before our arrival here I had 
been filled with prejudices against her, prejudices 
which the sight of her made only more alarming. She 
had an ever-smiling, pink and white face, mischievous 
blue eyes, and a curious snub-nose; when she smiled, 
little dimples formed in her cheeks and her mouth was 
ever ready to laugh. When she did laugh, her double 
row of white teeth sparkled; in a word she was as ugly 
as the devil. 


The Girl Substitute 37 


All three were busy knitting as we entered. When 
the door opened, they all put down their knitting. I 
kissed the hands of both the elder ladies, who em- 
braced me in return, but my attention was entirely 
devoted to the little lively witch, who did not wait a 
moment, but ran to meet grandmother, threw herself 
upon her neck, and kissed her passionately ; then, bow- 
ing and curtseying before us, kissed Lorand twice, act- 
ually gazing the while into his eyes. 

A cold chill seized me. If this little snub-nosed 
devil dared to go so far as to kiss me, I did not 
know what would become of me in my terror. 

Yet I could not avoid this dilemma in any way. The 
terrible little witch, having done with the others, 
rushed upon me, embraced me, and kissed me so pas- 
sionately that I was quite ashamed; then twining her 
arm in mine, dragged me to the little arm-chair from 
which she had just risen, and compelled me to sit down, 
though we could scarcely find room in it for us both. 
Then she told many things to me in that unknown 
tongue, the only result of which was to persuade 
me that my poor good mother would have a noisy 
baggage to take the place of her quiet, obedient 
little son; I felt sure her days would be embittered 
by that restless tongue. Her mouth did not stop for 
one moment, yet I must confess that she had a voice 
like a bell. 

That was again a family peculiarity. Mother Fromm 
was endowed with an inexhaustible store of that treas- 
ure called eloquence: and a sharp, strong voice, too, 
which forbade the interruption of any one else, 
with a flow like that of the purling stream. The grand- 
mamma had an equally generous gift, only she had no 
longer any voice: only every second word was audible, 
like one of those barrel-organs, in which an occasional 
note, instead of sounding, merely blows. 

Our business was to listen quietly. 

For my part, that was all the easier, as I could not 
suspect what was the subject of this flow of barbarian 
words; all I understood was that, when the ladies spoke 


38 Debts of Honor 


to me, they addressed me as “ Istok,’* a jest which I 
found quite out of place, not knowing that it was the 
German for “ Why don’t you eat?” For you must 
know the coffee was brought immediately, with very 
fine little cakes, prepared especially for us under the 
personal supervision of Father Fromm. 

Even that little snub-nosed demon said “ Issdoch,” 
seized a cake, dipped it in my coffee, and forcibly 
crammed it into my mouth, when I did not wish to un- 
derstand her words. 

But I was not at all hungry. All kinds of things 
were brought onto the table, but I did not want any- 
thing. Father Fromm kept calling out continually in 
student guise “ Comedi! Comedi!” a remark which 
called forth indignant remonstrances from mamma and 
grossmamma ; how could he call his own dear ** Kugel- 
huff’? t a “ comedy!!!” 

Fanny in sooth required no coaxing. At first sight 
anyone could see that she was the spoiled child of the 
family, to whom everything was allowed. She tried 
everything, took a double portion of everything and 
only after taking what she required did she ask “ darf 
ich? ”’{—and I understood immediately from the tone 
of her voice and the nodding of her head, that she 
meant to ask “if she might.” 

Then instead of finishing her share she had the 
audacity to place her leavings on my plate, an action 
which called forth rebuke enough from Grossmamma. 
I did not understand what she said, but I strongly sus- 
pected that she abused her for wishing to accustom 
the “new child” to eating a great deal. Generally 
speaking, I had brought from home the suspicion that, 
when two people were speaking German before me, 
they were surely hatching some secret plot against me, 
the end of which would be, either that I would not get 





*“ Tssdoch,” the German for “but eat.” (Why don’t you 
eat?) While Istok is a nickname for Stephan in Magyar. 

Tt A cake eaten everywhere in Hungary. 

t 4. e., darf ich, “may 1?” 


The Girl Substitute 39 


something, or would not be taken somewhere, where I 
wished to go. 

I would not have tasted anything the little snub- 
nose gave me, if only for the reason that it was she 
who had given it. How could she dare to touch my 
plate with those dirty little hands of hers, that were 
just like cats-paws ? 

Then she gave everything I would not accept to the 
little kitten; however, the end of it all was, that she 
again turned to me, and asked me to play with the kit- 
ten. 

Incomprehensible audacity! To ask me, who was 
already a school-student, to play with a tiny kitten. 

“Shoo!” I said to the malicious creature; a remark 
which, notwithstanding the fact that it seemed to be- 
long to some strange-tongued nationality, the animal 
understood, for it immediately leaped down off the 
table and ran away. This caused the little snub-nose 
to get angry with me, and she took her sensitive re- 
venge upon me, by going across to my grandmother, 
whom she tenderly caressed, kissing her hand, and 
then nestled to her bosom, turning her back on me; 
once or twice she looked back at me, and if at the mo- 
ment my eye was on her, sulkily flung back her head; 
as if that was any great misfortune to me. 

Little imp! She actually occupied my place beside 
my grandmother—and before my eyes too. 

Well, and why did I gaze at her, if I was so very 
angry with her? I will tell you truly; it was only that 
I might see to what extremes she would carry her au- 
dacity. I would far rather have been occupied in the 
fruitless task of attempting to discover something in- 
telligent in a conversation that was being carried on 
before me in a strange tongue: an effort that is com- 
mon to all men who have a grain of human curiosity 
flowing in their veins, and that, as is well-known, al- 
ways remains unsuccessful. 

Still one combination of mine did succeed. That 
name “ Henrik” often struck my ear. Father Fromm 
was called Henrik, but he himself uttered the name: 


40 Debts of Honor 


that therefore could not be other than his son. My 
grandmother spoke of him in pitiful tones, whereas 
Father Fromm assumed a look of inexorable severity, 
when he gave information on this subject; and as he 


spoke I gathered frequently the words “ prosodia,”— 
“ pensum ”—“ labor ”—** vocabularium ”—and many 
other terms common to dog-Latin: among which words 
like ‘ secunda ”—* tertia”—‘ carcer” served as a 


sufficiently trustworthy compass to direct me to the 
following conclusion: My friend Henrik might not put 
in an appearance to-day at supper, because he did not 
know his lessons, and was to remain imprisoned in the 
house until he could improve his standing by learning 
to repeat, in the language of a people long since dead, 
the names of a host of eatables. ; 

Poor Henrik! 

I never had any patience with the idea of anyone’s 
starving, and moreover starving by way of punish- 
ment. I could understand anyone being done to death 
at once: but the idea of condemning anyone in cold 
blood to starve, to wrestle with his own body, to strive 
with his own heart and stomach, I always regarded as 
cruelty. I deemed that if I took one of those little 
cakes, which that audacious girl had piled up before 
me so forcibly, and put it in my pocket, it would not 
be wasted. 

I waited cautiously until nobody was looking my 
way, and then slipped the cake into my pocket without 
accident. 

Without accident? I only remarked it, when that 
little snub-nose laughed to herself. Just at that mo- 
ment she had squinted towards me. But she immedi- 
ately closed her mouth with her hand, giggling be- 
tween her fingers, the while her malicious, deceitful 
eyes smiled into mine. What would she think? Per- 
haps that I am too great a coward to eat at table, and 
too insatiable to be satisfied with what I received. Oh! 
how ashamed I was before her! I would have been 
capable of any sacrifice to secure her secrecy, perhaps 


The Girl Substitute AI 


even of kissing her, if she would not tell anyone. . . 
I was so frightened. 

My fright was only increased by the grandmother, 
who first looked at the cake-dish, and then looked 
at each plate on the table in turn, subsequently 
resetting her gaze upon that cake-dish; then she gazed 
up to the ceiling, as if making some calculation, which 
she followed up by considerable shaking of her head. 

Who could not understand that dumb speech? She 
had counted the cakes; calculated how many each had 
devoured; how many had been put on the dish, had 
added and subtracted, with the result that one cake 
was missing: what had become of it? An inquisition 
would follow : the cake would be looked for, and found 
in my pocket, and then no water could ever wash away 
my shame. 

Every moment I expected that little demoniacal cu- 
riosity to point to me with that never-resting hand of 
hers, and proclaim: “there in the new child’s pocket 
is the cake.” 

She was already by my side, and I saw that father, 
mother and Grandmother Fromm turned to me all 
with inquiring looks, and addressed some terrible “ in- 
terpellatio” to me, which I did not understand, but 
could suspect what it was. And Lorand and grand- 
mother did not come to my aid to explain what it all 
meant. 

Instead of which snub-nose swept up to me and, re- 
peating the same question, explained it by pantomimic 
gestures; laying one hand upon the other, then placing 
her head upon them, gently closed her eyes. 

Oh, she was asking, if I were sleepy? It was re- 
markable, how this insufferable creature could make 
me understand everything. 

Never did that question come more opportunely. TI 
breathed more freely. Besides, I made up my mind 
never to call her ‘‘ snub-nose devil”? any more. 

Grandmother allowed me to go: little Fanny was 
to show me to my room: I was to sleep with Henrik: 


42 Debts of Honor 


I said good-night to all in turn, and so distracted was 
I that I kissed even Fanny’s hand. And the little bun- 
dle of malice did not prevent me, she merely laughed 
at me for it. 

This girl had surely been born merely to annoy me. 

She took a candle in her hand and told me to follow 
her: she would lead the way. 

I obeyed her. 

We had not quite reached the head of the corridor 
when the draught blew out the candle. 

We were in complete darkness, for there was no 
lamp burning here of an evening on the staircase, only 
a red glimmer, reflected probably from the bakery- 
chimney, lit up the darkness, and even that disappeared 
as we left the corridor. 

Fanny laughed when the candle went out, and tried 
for a time to blow the spark into a flame: not succeed- 
ing, she put down the candle-stick, and leaning upon 
my arm assured me that she could show me the way in 
this manner too. 

Then, without waiting for a remark from me; she 
took me with her into the pitchy darkness. At first 
she spoke, to encourage me, and then began to sing, 
perhaps to make me understand better; and felt with 
her hands for the doors, and with her feet for the. 
steps of the staircase. Meanwhile I continually re- 
flected: “this terrible malicious trifler is plotting to 
lead me into some flour-bin, shut the door upon me, and 
leave me there till the morning: or to let me step in the 
darkness into some flue, where I shall fall up to my 
neck into the rising dough ;—for of that everything is 
full.” 

Poor, kind, good Fanny! I was so angry with you, 
I hated you so when I first saw yout . . . And 
now, as we grow old . ee * 

I should never have believed that anyone could lead 
me in such subterranean darkness through that wind- 
ing labyrinth, where even in broad daylight I often 
entirely lost my whereabouts. I only wondered that 
this extraordinarily audacious girl could refrain from 


The Girl Substitute 43 


pulling my hair as she led me through that darkness, 
her arm in mine, though she had such a painful oppor- 
tunity of doing so. Yes, I quite expected her to do so. 

Finally we reached a door, before which there was 
no need of a lamp to assure a man of the room he was 
seeking. Through the door burst that most sorrowful 
of all human sounds, the sound of a child audibly 
wrestling with some unintelligible verse, twenty, fifty, 
a thousand times repeated anew, and anew, without 
becoming intelligible, while the verse had not yet taken 
its place in the child’s head. Through the boards 
sounded afar a spiral Latin phrase. 

“ His atacem, panacem, phylacem, coracem que fa- 
cemque.” Then again: 

“ His acatem, panacem, phylaeem, coracem que fa- 
cemque.” 

And again the same. 

Fanny placed her ear against the door and seized my 
hand as a hint to be quiet. Then she laughed aloud. 
How can anyone find an amusing subject in a poor 
hard-brained “ studiosus,’’ who cannot grasp that rule, 
inevitable in every career in life, that the second sylla- 
ble of dropax, antrax, climax “et caethra graeca”’ in 
the first case is long, in the second short—a rule ex- 
tremely useful to a man later in life when he gets into 
some big’ scrape? 

But Fanny found it extremely ridiculous. Then 
she opened the door and nodded to me to follow her. 

It was a small room under the staircase. Within 
were two beds, placed face to face; on one I recog- 
nized my own pillows which I had brought with me, 
so that must be my sleeping place. seside the window 
was a writing-table on which was burning a single can- 
dle, its wick so badly trimmed as to prove that he who 
should have trimmed it had been so deeply engaged in 
work that he had not remarked whether darkness or 
light surrounded him. 

Weeping, his head buried in his hands, my friend 
Henrik was sitting at that table; as the door opened 
he raised his head from the book over which he was 


44 Debts of Honor 


poring. He greatly resembled his mother and grand- 
mother: he had just such a pronounced nose; but he 
had bristly hair, like his father, only black and not so 
closely cropped. He, too, had the family wart, ac- 
tually in the middle of his nose. 

As he looked up from his book, in a moment his 
countenance changed rapidly from fear to delight, 
from delight to suspicion. The poor boy thought he 
had gained a respite, and that the messenger had come 
with the white serviette to invite him to supper: he 
smiled at Fanny entreating compassion, and then, 
when he saw me, became embarrassed. 

Fanny approached him with an enquiring air, placed 
one hand on his thigh, with the other pointed to the 
open book, probably intending to ask him whether he 
knew his lessons. 

The great lanky boy rose obediently before his little 
confessor, who scarce reached to his shoulder, and 
proceeded to put himself to rights. He handed the 
book to Fanny, casting a farewell glance at the dis- 
gusting, insufferable words; and with a great gulp 
by which he hoped to remove all obstacles from the 
way of the lines he had to utter, cleared his throat and 
began :— 

“His abacem, phylacem.. . 

Fanny shook her head. It was not good. 

Henrik was frightened. He began again: 

“His abacem, coracem .. .” 

Again it was wrong. The poor boy began over five 
or six times, but could not place those pagan words 
in the correct order, and as the mischievous girl shook 
her head each time he made a mistake, he finally be- 
came so confused that he could not even begin; then he 
reddened with anger, and, gnashing his teeth, tore the 
graceless book out of Fanny’s hand, threw it down 
upon the table and commenced an assault upon the 
heathen words, and with glaring eyes read the million- 
times repeated incantation: “ His abacem, panacem, 
phylacem, coracem facemque,” striking the back of 
his head with clinched fist at every word. 


” 


ee 


The Girl Substitute 45 


Fanny burst into uncontrollable laughter at this 
scene. 

I, however, was very sorry for my companion. My 
learning had been easy enough, and | regarded him 
with the air of a lord who looks from his coach window 
at the bare-footed passers-by. 

Fanny was unmerciful to him. 

Henrik looked up at her, and though I did not un- 
derstand her words, I understood from his eyes that 
he was asking for something to eat. 

The strong-headed sister actually refused his re- 
quest. 

I wished to prove my goodness of heart—my vanity 
also inclined me to inform this mischievous creature 
that I had not put away the bun for my own sake—So 
I stepped up to Henrik and, placing my hand on his 
shoulder with condescending friendliness, pressed into 
his hand the cake I had reserved for him. 

Henrik cast a glance at me like some wild beast 
which has an aversion to petting, then flung the bun 
under the table with such violence that it broke into 
pieces. 

“Dummer kerl!’”’* 

I remember well, that was the first title of respect 
I received from him. 

Planting his knuckles on the top of my head, he 
performed a tattoo with the same all over my head. 

That is called, in slang, “holz-birn.’”’+ By this process 
of “knuckling ” the larger boys showed their contempt 
for the smaller, and it belongs to that kind of teasing 
which no self-respecting boy ever would allow to pass 
unchallenged. And before this girl, too! 

Henrik was taller than I, by a head, but I did not 
mind. I grasped him by the waist, and grappled with 
him. He wished to drag me in the direction of my 
bed, in order to throw me on to it, but with a quick 


*“ Stupid fellow!” 
+ Literally ‘ Wild-pear” (qwood-pear) a method of “knuck- 
ling” down the younger boys. 


46 Debts of Honor 


movement I cast him on his own bed, and holding his 
two hands tight on his chest, cried to him: 

‘Pick up the bun immediately! ” 

Henrik kicked and snarled for a moment, then be- 
gan to laugh, and to my astonishment begged me, in 
student tongue, to release him: ‘ We should be good 
friends.’ J released him, we shook hands, and the 
fellow became quite lively. 

What astonished me most was that, at the time I 
was throwing her brother, Fanny did not come to his 
aid nor tear out my eyes, she merely laughed, and 
screamed her approval. She seemed to be thoroughly 
enjoying herself. 

After this we all three looked for the fragments of 
Henrik’s broken bun, which the good fellow with an 
expression of contentment dispatched on its natural 
way; then Fanny produced a couple of secreted apples 
which she had “sneaked” for him. I found it re- 
markable beyond words that this impertinent child’s 
thoughts ran in the same direction as my own. 

From that hour Henrik and I were always fast 
friends; we are so to this day. When we got into bed 
I was curious as to the dreams I should have in the 
strange house. There is a widely-spread belief that 
what one dreams the first night in a new house will in 
reality come to pass. 

I dreamed of the little snub-nose. 

She was an angel with wings, beautiful dappled 
wings, such as I had read of not long since in the 
legend of Vorosmarty.* All around me she fluttered: 
but I could not move, my feet were so heavy, albeit 
there was something fromwhich I ought to escape, until 
she seized my hand and then I could run so lightly that 
I did not touch the earth even with the tips of my feet. 

How I worried over that dream! A _ snub-nosed 
angel— What mocking dreams a man has, to be sure. 

The next day we were early astir; to me it seemed 


* A great Hungarian poet who lived and died in the early 
° 7 
part of this century. He wrote legends and made a remark- 
able translation of some of Shakespeare’s worl:s. 


The Girl Substitute 47 


all the earlier, as the window of our little room looked 
out on to the narrow courtyard, where the day dawned 
so slowly, but Marton, the principal assistant, was told 
off to brawl at the schoolboy’s door, when breakfast 
was being prepared: 

“ Surgendum disciple! ”’ 

I could not think what kind of an assault it was, 
that awoke me from my dream, when first I heard the 
clamorous clarion call But Henrik jumped to his feet 
at once, and roused me from my bed, explaining, half in 
student language, half by gesture, that we should go 
down now to the bakery to see how the buns and cakes 
were baked. There was no need to dress; we might 
_go in our night clothes, as the bakers wear quite similar 
costumes. [ was curious, and easily persuaded to do 
anything; we put on our slippers and went down to- 
gether to the bakery. 

It was an agreeable place; from afar it betrayed it- 
self by that sweet confectionery smell, which makes a 
man imagine that if he breathes it in long enough he 
will satisfy his hunger therewith. Everything in the 
whole place was as white as snow; everything so clean ; 
great bins full of flour; huge vessels full of swelling 
dough, from which six white-dressed, white-aproned 
assistants were forming every conceivable kind of 
cake and bun; piled upon the shelves of the gigantic 
white oven the first supply was gradually baking, fill- 
ing the whole room with a most agreeable odor. 

Master Marton, when he caught sight of me, began 
to welcome me in a kind of broken Hungarian “ Jo 
reggelt jo reggelt!”’ * 

He had a curious knack of putting the whole of 
his scalp into motion whenever he moved his eye- 
brows up or down; a comical peculiarity of which 
he availed himself whenever he wished to make any- 
one laugh, and saw that his words did not have the 
desired effect. 

Henrik set to work and competed with the baker’s 


* Good morning. 


48 | Debts of Honor 


assistants ; he was clever at making dainty little titbits 
of cakes quite as clever as anyone there; and 
pleasure beamed on his face when the old assistant 
praised his efforts. 

“You see,’ Marton said to me, “ what a ready as- 
sistant he would make! In two years he might be free. 
But the old man is determined he shall learn and study; 
he wants to make a councillor of him.” With these 
words Marton, by a movement of his eyebrows, sent the 
whole of the skin on his head to form a bunch on the 
crown, for all the world as if it had been a wig on 
springs. 

“Councillor, indeed! a councillor who gnaws pens 
when he is hungry! Thanks; not if they gave me the 
tower of St. Michael. A councillor, who, with paper 
in hand and pen behind ear, goes to visit the bakers in 
turn, and weighs their loaves in the balance to see if 
they are correct weight.” 

It seemed that Marton did not take into considera- 
tion any other duties that a councillor might have be- 
sides the examining of bakers’ loaves—and that one 
could hardly gain his approval. 

“Yet, if you take a little pains for their sake, you 
will find them as gentle as lambs. Give them a ‘ heit- 
ige striozts,’* or All Saints Day, and you will secure 
your object. Such is Mr. Dintenklek.” At this point 
Marton could not refrain from breaking out into an 
unmelodious ‘ Gassenhauer”’ + the refrain of which 
was, “ Alas! Mr. Dintenklek.”’ 

Two or three assistants joined in the refrain, of 
which I did not understand a word; but as Marton 
uttered the final words, “ Alas Mr. Dintenklek,” his 
gestures were such as to lead me to suspect that this 
Mr. Dintenklek must be some very ridiculous figure 
in the eye of baker’s assistants. 

“Why, of course, Henrik must learn law. The old 
man says he, too, might have become a councillor if he 


* A kind of dainty bit suitable to this “holy ” occasion. 
+ A popular air sung in the streets. 


The Girl Substitute 49 


had concluded his studies at school. What a blessing 
he did not. As it is, he almost murders us with his 
learning. He is always showing off how much Latin 
he knows. Yes, the old man Latinizes.” 

As he said this Marton could scarcely control the 
skin of his head, so often did he have to twitch his 
eyebrows in order to express the above opinion, which 
he held about his master’s pedantry. 

Then with a sudden suspicion he turned to me: 

“You don’t wish to be a councillor, I suppose?” 

I earnestly assured him that, on the contrary, I 
was preparing for a vacancy in the county. 

“ Oho! lieutenant-governor? That is different, quite 
another thing; travelling in a coach. No putting 
on of mud boots when it is muddy. That I allow.” 
And,:in order to show how deep a respect he bore 
towards my presumptive office position, he drew his 
eyebrows up so high that his cap fell back upon his 
neck. 

“ Enough of dough-kneading for the present, Master 
Henrik. Go back to your room and write out your 
‘pensum,’ for you will again be forbidden breakfast, 
if it is not ready.” 

Henrik did not listen to him, but worked away for 
all the world as if he was not being addressed. 

Meanwhile Marton was cutting a large piece of 
dough into bits of exactly equal size, out of which the 
“Vienna” rolls were to be formed. This delicate piece 
of work needs an accurate eye to avoid cheating either 
one’s master or the public. 

“You see, he is at home here; he does not want his 
books. And there is nothing more beautiful, more re- 
fined than ourart; nothing more remunerative ; we deal 
with the blessing of God, for we prepare the daily 
bread. The Lord’s Prayer includes the baker, ‘ Give 
us this day our daily bread.’ Is there any mention 
anywhere of butchers, of tailors or of cobblers? Well, 
does anyone pray for meat, for coats, or for books? 
Let me hear about him. But they do pray for their 
daily bread, don’t they? And does the prayer-book 


50 Debts of Honor 


say anything concerning councillors? What? Who 
knows anything on that score?” 

Some young assistant interrupted: “ Why, of 
course, ‘ but deliver us from the evil one.’ ” 

This caused everybody to laugh; it caused Henrik 
to spoil his buns, which had to be kneaded afresh. He 
was annoyed by the idea that he had learned all he 
had merely in order to be ridiculed here in the 
bakery. 

‘“ Ha, yes,’ remarked Master Marton, smiling. ‘ It 
is a great misfortune that a man is never asked how 
he wishes to die, but a still greater misfortune if he is 
not asked how he wishes to live. My father destined 
me to be a butcher. I learned the whole trade. Then 
I suddenly grew tired of all that ox-slaughtering, and 
cow-skinning. I was always fascinated by these 
beautiful brown-backed rolls in the shop-window; 
whenever I passed before the confectionery window, 
the pleasant warm bread-odors just invited me in:— 
until at last I deserted my trade, and joined Father 
Fromm. At that time my moustache and beard were 
already sprouting, but I have never regretted my 
determination. Whenever I look at my clean, white 
shirt, I am delighted at the idea that I have not to 
sprinkle it with blood, and wear the blood-stained gar- 
ment the rest of the day. Everyone should follow his 
own bent, should he not, Henrik?” 

“True,” muttered the youth in a tone of anger. 
“And yet the butcher’s trade is as far above the coun- 
cillor’s as the weather-cock on St. Michael’s tower is 
above our own vane. I do not like blood on my hands, 
yet at least I could wash it off; but if a drop of ink 
gets on my finger from my pen, for three days no 
pumice stone would induce it to depart. Yes, it is a 
glorious thing to be a baker’s assistant.” 

Marton now busied himself in shovelling several 
dozen loaves of white bread into the heated oven. 
Meantime the whole “ ménage ”’ commenced with one 
voice to sing a peculiar air, which I had already heard 
several times resounding through the bakers’ windows. 


The Girl Substitute RE 


It runs as follows: 


“Oh, the kneading trough is fine, 
Very beautiful and fine. 


Straight and crooked, round in form 
Thin and long, three-legged too, 
Here’s a stork, and here’s a ‘ ticker,’ 
While here’s a pair of snuffers too, 
Stork and ticker, snuffers too, 
Bottles, tipsy Michael with them. 
Bottles, tipsy Michael with them, 
Stork and ticker, snuffers too, 

Thin and long, three-legged too, 
Straight and crooked, round in form. 


Oh! the kneading trough is fine, 
Very beautiful and fine.” 


They sang this air with such a passionate earnestness 
that, to this day I must believe, was caused, not by the 
beauty of the verses, or the corresponding melody, 
but rather by some superstitious feeling that their 
chanting would prevent the plague infecting the bread 
while it was baking, or perhaps the air served as an 
hour-glass telling them by its termination that now 
was the time to take the bread out of the oven. As they 
who are wont to use the Lord’s Prayer for the boiling 
of eggs—God save the mark. 

Henrik joined in. I saw he had no longer any idea 
of finishing his school tasks, and when the “ Oh, the 
kneading trough ” began anew, I left him in the bakery, 
and went upstairs to our room. On the table lay 
Henrik’s unfortunate exercise-book open, full of cor- 
rections made in a different ink; of the new exercise 
only the first line had been begun. Immediately I 
collected the words wanted from a dictionary, and 
wrote the translation down on a piece of paper. 

Not till an hour later did he return from the scene 
of his operations, and even then did not know to what 
he should turn his hand first. Great was his delight, 
then, to see the task already finished; he merely had 
to copy it. 


Ly Debts of Honor 


He gazed at me with a curious peevishness and said: 
** Guter kerl.” * 

From his countenance I could not gather what he 
had said but the word kerl made me prepare myself for 
a repetition of the struggle of yesterday, for which I 
did not feel the least inclination. 

Scarcely was the copying ready when the steps of 
Father Fromm resounded on the staircase. Henrik 
hastily thrust my writing into his pockets and was 
poring over the open book, when the old man halted 
before the door, so that when he opened it, such a 
noise resounded in the room as if Henrik were trying 
to drive an army of locusts out of the country: “his 
abacem.” 

“ Ergo, ergo; quomodo?”’ said the old man, placing 
the palm of his hand upon my head. I saw that this 
was his manner of showing affection. 

I ventured to utter my first German word, answering 
his query with a “ Guter morgen;” f at which the old 
fellow shook his head and laughed. I could not 
imagine why. Perhaps I had expressed myself badly, 
or had astonished him with my rapid progress? 

He did not enlighten me on the subject; instead he 
turned with a severe confessorial face to Henrik: “ No 
ergo! Quid ergo? Quid scis? Habes pensum? 
Nebulo! ” 

Henrik tried whether he could move the skin of his 
head like Master Marton did, when he spoke of Mr. 
Fromm’s Latin. For the sake of greater security he 
first of all displayed the written exercise to his father, 
thinking it better to leave his weaker side until later. 

Father Fromm gazed at the deep learning with a 
critical eye, then graciously expressed his approval. 

“Bonus, Bonus.” 

But the lesson? 

That bitter piece! 


* Good fellow. p aie 
+ Correctly, “Guten Morgen” (wunsch ich): “I wish (you) 
(a) good morning.” 


The Girl Substitute 53 


Even yesterday, when he had only to recite them to 
the little snub-nose, Henrik did not know the verses, 
and to-day, the book was in the old man’s hand! If 
he had merely taken the book in his hands! But with 
his disengaged hand he held a ruler with the evident 
intention of immediately pulling the boy up, if he 
made a imistake. 

Poor Henrik, of course, did not know a single word. 
He gazed ever askance at Father Fromm’s ruler, and 
when he reached the first obstacle, as the old fellow 
raised the ruler, probably merely with the intention of 
striking Henrik’s mental capacity into action by start- 
ling him, Henrik was no more to be seen; he was under 
the bed, where he had managed to hide his long body 
with remarkable agility ; nor would he come forth until 
Father Fromm promised he would not hurt him, and 
would take him to breakfast. 

And Father Fromm kept the conditions of the ar- 
mistice, only verbally denouncing the boy as he wrig- 
gled out of his fortress; I did not understand what he 
said, I only gathered by his grimaces and gestures that 
he was annoyed over the matter—by my presence. 

The morning was spent in visiting professors. The 
director was a strongly-built, bony-faced, moustached 
man, with a high, baid forehead, broad-chested, and 
when he spoke, he did not spare his voice, but always 
talked as if he were preaching. He was very well sat- 
isfied with our school certificates, and made no secret 
of it. He assured grandmother he would take care of 
us and deal severely with us. He would not allow us 
to go astray in this town. He would often visit us at 
our homes; that was his custom; and any student con- 
victed of disorderliness would be punished. 

“Are the boys musicians?” he asked grandmother 
in harsh tones. 

“Oh, yes; the one plays the piano, the other the 
violin.” 

The director struck the middle of the table with his 
fist: “I am sorry—but I cannot allow violin playing 
under any circumstances.” 


54 Debts of Honor 


Lorand ventured to ask, “ Why not?” 

“Why not, indeed? Because that is the fountain- 
head of all mischief. The book, not the violin, is for 
the student. What do you wish to be? a gypsy, or a 
scholar? The violin betrays students into every kind 
of mischief. How do I know? Why, I see examples 
of it every day. The student takes the violin under 
his coat, and goes with it to the inn, where he plays for 
other students who dance there till morning with loose 
girls. So I break into fragments every violin I find. I 
don’t ask whether it was dear; I dash it to the ground. 
I have already smashed violins of high value.” 

Grandmother saw it would be wiser not to allow 
Lorand to answer, so she hastened to anticipate him: 

“Why, it is not the elder boy, sir, who plays the 
violin, but this younger one; besides, neither has been 
so trained as to wish to go to any undesirable place of 
amusement.” 

“That does not matter. The little one has still less 
need of scraping. Besides, I know the student; at 
home he makes saintly faces, as if he would not disturb 
water, but when once let loose, be it in an inn, be it in 
a cofttee-house, there he will sit beside his beer, and 
join in a competition, to see who is the greatest tippler, 
shout and sing ‘Gaudeamus igitur.” That is why 
I don’t allow students to carry violins under their top- 
coats to inns, under any circumstances. I break the 
violin in pieces, and have the top-coat cut into a 
covert-coat. A student with a top-coat! That’s only 
for an army officer. Then, I cannot suffer anyone to 
wear sharp-pointed boots which are especially made 
for dancing; flat-toed boots are for honest men; no 
one must come to my school in pointed boots, for I put 
his foot on the bench and cut away the points.” 

Grandmother hurried her visit to prevent Lorand 
having an opportunity of giving answer to the worthy 
man, who carried his zeal in the defence of morality 
to such a pitch as to break up violins, have top-coats 
cut down, and cut off the points of pointed boots. 

It was a good habit of mine (long, long ago, in my 


The Girl Substitute Gy 


childhood days), to regard as sacred anything a man, 
who had the right to my obedience, might say. When 
we came away from the director’s presence, I whis- 
pered to Lorand in a distressed tone: 

“Your boots seem to me a little too pointed.” 

“ Henceforward | shall have them made still more 
pointed,” replied Lorand,—an answer with which I 
was not at all satisfied. 

In my eyes every serious man was surrounded by 
a “nimbus ” of infallibility; no one had ever enlight- 
ened me on the fact that serious-minded men had 
themselves once been young, and had learned the 
student jargon of Heidelberg; that this director him- 
self, after a noisy youth, had arrived at the idea that 
every young man has malicious propensities, and that 
what seems good in him is only make-believe, and so 
he must be treated with the severity of military dis- 
cipline. 

Then we proceeded to pay a visit to my class-master, 
who was the exact opposite of the director: a slight, 
many-cornered little man, with long hair brushed back, 
smooth shaved face, and such a thin, sweet voice that 
one might have taken every word of his as a supplica- 
tion. And he was so familiar in his dealings with us. 
He received us in a dressing gown, but when he saw 
a lady was with us, he hastily changed ‘that for a black 
coat, and asked pardon—why, I do not know. 

Then he attempted to drive a host of little children 
out of his room, but without success. They clung to 
his hands and arms and he could not shake them off ; 
he called out to some lady to come and help him. A 
sleepy face appeared at the other door, and suddenly 
withdrew on seeing us. Finally, at grandmother’s re- 
quest, he allowed the children to remain. 

Mr. Schmuck was an excellent ‘‘ paterfamilias,” and 
took great care of children. His study was crammed 
with toys; he received us with great tenderness, and 
I remember well that he patted me on the head. 

Grandmother immediately became more confident of 
this good man than she had been of his colleague, 


56 Debts of Honor 


whom we had previously visited. For he was so fond 
of his own children. To him she related the secret 
that made her heart sad; explained why we were in 
mourning; told him that father was unfortunately 
dead, and that we were the sole hopes of our sickly 
mother ; that up till now our behaviors had been excel- 
lent, and finally asked him to take care of me, the 
younger. 

The good fellow clasped his hands and assured 
grandmother that he would make a great man of 
me, especially if I would come to him privately; that 
he might devote particular attention to the development 
of my talents. This private tuition would not come 
to more than seven florins a month. And that is not 
much for the whetting of one’s mind; as much might 
be paid even for the grinding of scissors. 

Grandmother, her spirits depressed by the previous 
reception, timidly ventured to introduce the remark 
that I had a certain inclination for the violin, but she 
did not know whether it was allowed? 

The good man did not allow her to speak further. 
“Of course, of course. Music ennobles the soul, 
music calms the inclinations of the mind. Even in the 
days of Pythagoras lectures were closed by music. He 
who indulges in music is always in the society of good 
spirits. And here it will be very cheap; it will not cost 
more than six florins * a month, as my children have 
a music-master of their own.” 

Dear grandmother, seeing his readiness to acquiesce, 
thought it good to make some more requests (this is 
always the way with a discontented people, too, when 
it meets with ready acquiescence in the powers that 
be). She remarked that perhaps I might be allowed to 
learn dancing. : 

“Why, nothing could be more natural,’ was the 
answer of the gracious man. ‘ Dancing goes hand-in- 
hand with music; even in Greek days it was the choral 
revellers that were accompanied by the harp. In the 


*1 florin equals 2s English money or 40 cents. 


The Girl Substitute 57 


classics there is frequent mention of the dance. With 
the Romans it belonged to culture, and according to 
tradition even holy David danced. In the world of 
to-day it is just indispensable, especially to a young 
man. An innocent enjoyment! One form of bodily 
exercise. It is indispensable that the young man of 
to-day shall step, walk, stand properly, and be able 
to bow and dance, and not betray at once, on his ap- 
pearance, that he has come from some school of 
pedantry. And in this respect I obey the tendency of 
the age. My own children all learn to dance, and 
as the dancing-master comes here in any case my 
young friend may as well join my children; it will not 
cost more than five florins.” 

Grandmother was extraordinarily contented with the 
bargain ; she found everything quite cheap. 

“ By cooperation everything becomes cheap. A true 
mental ‘ménage.’ Many learn together, and each pays 
a trifle. If you wish my young friend to learn draw- 
ing, it will not cost more than four florins; four hours 
weekly, together with the others. Perhaps you will 
not find it superfluous, that our young friend should 
make acquaintance with the more important European 
languages; he can learn, under the supervision of 
mature teachers, English and French, at a cost of not 
more than three florins, three hours a week. And if 
my young friend has a few hours to spare, he cannot 
do better than spend them in the gymnasium; gymnas- 
tic exercise is healthy, it encourages the development of 
the muscles along with that of the brain, and it does 
- not cost anything, only ten florins entrance fee.” 

Grandmother was quite overcome by this thought- 
fulness. She left everything in order and paid in 
advance. 

I do not wish anyone to come to the conclusion, from 
the facts stated above, that in course of time I shall 
come to boast what a Paganini I became in time, what 
a Mezzofanti as a linguist, what a Buonarotti in art, 
what a Vestris in the dance, or what a Michael Toddy 
in fencing :—I hasten to remark that I do not even yet 


58 Debts of Honor 


understand anything of all these things. I have only 
to relate how they taught them to me. 

When I went to my private lessons— together with 
the others °—the professor was not at home; we in- 
dulged in an hour’s wrestling. 

When I went to my dancing lessons—* together 
with the others ’’—the dancing master was missing: 
again an hour’s wrestling. 

During the French lessons we again wrestled, and 
during the drawing and violin hours we spent our time 
exactly as we did during the other hours; so that when 
the gymnastic lessons came round we had no more 
heart for wrestling. 

I did just learn to swim,—in secret, seeing that it was 
prohibited, and truly without paying :—unless I may 
count as a forfeit penalty that mass of water I swal- 
lowed once, when I was nearly drowned in the Danube. 
None even dared to acquaint the people at home with 
the fact; Lorand saved me, but he never boasted of his 
feat. 

As we left the house of this very kind man, who 
quite overcame grandmother and us, with his gracious 
and amiable demeanors, Lorand said: 

“From this hour I begin to greatly esteem the first 
professor: he is a noble, straight-forward fellow.” 

I did not understand his meaning—that is, I did not 
wish to understand. Perhaps he wished to slight 
“my” professor. 

According to my ethical principles it was purely 
natural that each student should admire and love that 
professor who was the director of his own class, and if 
one class is secretly at war with another, the only rea- 
son can be that the professor of one class is the oppo- 
nent of the other. My kingdom is the foe of thy king- 
dom, so my soldiers are the enemies of thy soldiers. 

I began to look at Lorand in the light of some such 
hostile soldier. 

Fortunately the events that followed drove all these 
ideas out of my head. 


CHAPTER elit 
MY RIGHT HONORABLE UNCLE 


WE were invited to dine with the Privy Councillor 
Balnokhazy, at whose house my brother was to take up 
his residence. 

He was some very distant relation of ours; however, 
he received a payment for Lorand’s board, seven hun- 
dred florins, a nice sum of money in those days. 

My pride was the greatest that my brother was living 
in a privy councillor’s house, and, if my school-fellows 
asked me where I lived, I never omitted to mention the 
fact that ‘‘ my brother was living with Balnokhazy, P. 
C.,” while I myself had taken up my abode merely with 
a baker. 

Baker Fromm was indeed very sorry that we were 
not dining “‘at home.” At least they might have left 
me alone there. That he did not turn to stone as he 
uttered these words was not my fault; at least I fixed 
upon him such basilisk eyes as I was capable of. What 
an idea! To refuse a dinner with my P. C. uncle for 
his sake! Grandmother, too, discovered that I also 
must be presented there. 

We ordered a carriage for 1:30; of course we could 
not with decency go to the P. C.’s on foot. Grand- 
mother fastened my embroidered shirt under my waist- 
coat, and I was vain enough to allow the little pugnose 
to arrange my tie. She really could make pretty bows, 
I thought. As I gazed at myself in the looking-glass, 
I found that I should be a handsome boy when I had 
put on my silver-buttoned attila.* And if only my hair 


* The coat worn by the hussars, forming part, as it does, of 
all real Magyar levée dresses. 


59 


60 Debts of Honor 


was curled! Still I was completely convinced that in’ 
the whole town there did not exist any more such sil- 
ver-buttoned attilas as mine. 

Only it annoyed me to watch the little pugnose 
careering playfully round me. How she danced round 
me, without any attempt to conceal the fact that I took 
her fancy; and how that hurt my pride! 

At the bottom of the stairs the comical Henrik was 
waiting for me, with a large brush in his hand. He as- 
sured me that my attila had become floury—surely 
from Fanny’s apron, for that was always floury—and 
that he must brush it off. I only begged him not to 
touch my collar with the hair brush; for that a silk 
brush was required, as it was velvet. 

I believe I set some store by the fact that the collar 
of my attila was velvet. 

From the arched doorway old Marton, too, called 
after me, as we took our seats, “ Good appetite, Master 
Sheriff! ’’ and five or six times moved his cap up and 
down on the top of his head. 

How {i should have loved to break his nose! Why is 
he compromising me here before my brother? He 
might know that when I| am in full dress I deserve far 
greater respect from when he sees me before him in 
my night clothes——But so it is with those whose busi- 
ness lies in flour. 

But let us speak no more of bakers; let us soar into 
higher regions. 

Our carriage stopped somewhere in the neighbor- 
hood of the House of Parliament, where there was a 
two-storied house, in which the P. C. lived. 

The butler—pardon! the chamberlain—was waiting 
for us downstairs at the gate (it is possible that it was 
not for us he was waiting). He conducted us up the 
staircase; from the staircase to the porch; from the 
porch to the anteroom; from the anteroom to the draw- 
ing-room, where our host was waiting to receive us. 

I used to think that at home we were elegant people 
—that we lodged and lived in style; but how poor I felt 
we were as we went through the rooms of the Balnok- 


My Right Honorable Uncle 61 


hazys. The splendor only incited my admiration and 
wonder, which was abruptly terminated by the arrival 
of the host and hostess and their daughter, Melanie, by 
three different doors. The P. C. was a tall, portly 
man, broad-shouldered, with black eyebrows, ruddy 
cheeks, a coal-black moustache curled upward; he 
formed the very ideal I had pictured to myself of a 
P.C. His hair also was of a beautiful black, fashion- 
ably dressed. 

He greeted us in a voice rich and stentorian; kissed 
grandmother; offered his hand to my brother, who 
shook it; while he allowed me to kiss his hand. 

What an enormous turquoise ring there was on his 
finger ! 

Then my right honorable aunt came into our pres- 
ence. I can say that since that day I have never seen 
a more beautiful woman. She was then twenty-three 
years of age; I know quite surely. Her beautiful face, 
its features preserved with the enamel of youth, seemed 
almost that of a young girl; her long blonde tresses 
waved around it; her lips, of graceful symmetry, 
always ready for a smile; her large, dark blue, and 
melancholy eyes shadowed by her long eyelashes; her 
whole form seemed not to walk—rather fluttered and 
glided; and the hand which she gave me to kiss was 
transparent as alabaster. 

My cousin Melanie was truly a little angel. Her 
first appearance, to me, was a phenomenon. Methinks 
no imagination could picture anything more lovely, 
more ethereal than her whole form. She was not yet 
more than eight years of age, but her stature gave her 
the appearance of some ten years. She was slender, 
and surely must have had some hidden wings, else it 
were impossible she could have fluttered as she did 
upon those symmetrical feet. Her face was fine and 
distingué, her eyes artful and brilliant; her lips were 
endowed with such gifts already—not merely of speak- 
ing four or five languages—such silent gifts as brought 
me beside myself. That child-mouth could smile en- 
chantingly with encouraging calmness, could proudly 


62 Debts of Honor 


despise, could pout with displeasure, could offer tacit 
requests, could muse in silent melancholy, could indulge 
in enthusiastic rapture—could love and hate. 

How often have I dreamed of that lovely mouth! 
how often seen it in my waking hours! how many hor- 
rible Greek words have I learned while musing thereon! 

I could not describe that dinner at the Balnokhazys 
to the end. Melanie sat beside me, and my whole 
attention was directed toward her. 

How refined was her behavior! how much elegance 
there was in every movement of hers! I could not 
succeed in learning enough from her. When, after 
eating, she wiped her lips with the napkin, it was as if 
spirits were exchanging kisses with the mist. Oh, 
how interminably silly and clumsy I was beside her! 
My hand trembled when I had to take some dish. 
Terrible was the thought that I might perchance drop 
the spoon from my hand and stain her white muslin 
dress with the sauce. She, for her part, seemed not 
to notice me; or, on the contrary, rather, was quite 
sure of the fact that beside her was sitting now a living 
creature, whom she had conquered, rendered dumb 
and transformed. If I offered her something, she 
could refuse so gracefully ; and if I filled her glass, she 
was so polite when she thanked me. 

No one busied himself very particularly with me. 
A young boy at my age is just the most useless article ; 
too big to be played with, and not big enough to be 
treated seriously. And the worst of it is that he feels 
it himself. Every boy of twelve years has the same 
ambition—*“ If only I were older already!” 

Now, however, I say, “If I could only be twelve 
years old still!” Yet at that time it was a great bur- 
den to me. And how many years have passed since 
then! 

Only toward the end of dinner, when the younger 
generation also were allowed to sip some sweet wine 
from their tiny glasses, did I find the attention of the 
company drawn toward me; and it was a curious case. 

The butler filled my glass also. The clear golden- 


My Right Honorable Uncle 63 


colored iiquor scintillated so temptingly before me in 
the cut glass, my little neighbor would so enchantingly 
deepen the ruddiness of her lips with the liquor from 
her glass, that an extraordinarily rash idea sprang up 
within me. 

I determined to raise my glass, clink glasses with 
Melanie, and say to her, ** Your health, dear cousin 
Melanie.” The blood rushed into my temples as I con- 
ceived the idea. | 

I was already about to take my glass, when I cast one 
look at Melanie’s face, and in that moment she gazed 
upon me with such disheartening pride that in terror [ 
withdrew my hand from my glass. It was probably 
this hesitating movement of mine that attracted the 
P. C.’s attention, for he deigned to turn to me with 
the following condescending remark (intended perhaps 
for an offer) : 

“Well, nephew, won’t you try this wine?” With 
undismayed determination [ answered: 

“ce INjome 

“ Perhaps you don’t wish to drink wine?” 

Cato did not utter the phrase “ Victrix causa diis 
placuit, sed victa Catoni,’ with more resolution than 
that with which I answered: 

peiNiever !\”’ 

“Oho! you will never drink wine? We shall see 
how you keep your word in the course of time!” 

And that is why I kept my word. Till to-day I have 
never touched wine. Probably that first fit of obsti- 
nacy caused my determination; in a word, slighted 
in the first glass, I never touched again any kind of 
pressed, distilled, or burnt beverage. So perhaps my 
house lost in me an after-dinner celebrity. 

“Don’t be ashamed, nephew,” encouragingly con- 
tinued my uncle; “this wine is allowed to the young 
also, if they dip choice Pressburg biscuits in it; it is a 
very celebrated biscuit, prepared by M. Fromm.” 

My blood rose to my cheeks. M. Fromm! My 
host! Immediately the conversation will turn upon 
him, and they will mention that I am living with him; 


64 Debts of Honor 


furthermore, they will relate that he has a little pug- 
nosed daughter, that they are going to exchange me 
with her. I should sink beneath the earth for very 
shame before my cousin Melanie! And surely, one 
has only to fear something and it will indeed come to 
pass. Grandmother was thoughtless enough to dis- 
cover immediately what I wished to conceal, with these 
words: 

“Desiderius is going to live with that very man.” 

“ Ha ha!” laughed uncle, in high humor (his laugh- 
ter penetrated my very marrow). ‘“ With the cele- 
brated ‘ Zwieback’* baker! Why, he can teach my 
nephew to bake Pressburg biscuits.” 

How I was scalded and reduced to nothing, how I 
blushed before Melanie!, The idea of my learning to 
bake biscuits from M. Fromm! I should never be able 
to wash myself clean of that suspicion. 

In my despair I found myself looking at Lorand. 
He also was looking at me. His gaze has remained 
lividly imprinted in my memory. I understood what he 
said with his eyes. He called me coward, miserable, 
and sensitive, for allowing the jests of great men to 
bring blushes to my cheeks. He was a democrat al- 
ways! 

When he saw that I was blushing, he turned obsti- 
nately toward Balnokhazy, to reply for me. 

But I was not the only one who read his thoughts 
in his eyes; another also read therein, and before he 
could have spoken, my beautiful aunt took the words 
out of his mouth, and with lofty dignity replied to her 
husband: 

“Methinks the baker is just as good a man as the 
privy councillor.” 

I shivered at the bold statement. I imagined that 
for these words the whole company would be arrested 
and thrown into prison. 

Balnokhazy, with smiling tenderness, bent down to 
his wife’s hand and, kissing it, said: 


* Biscuit. 


My Right Honorable Uncle 65 


“As a man, truly, just as good a man; but as a 
baker, a better baker than I.” 

Now it was Lorand’s turn to crimson. He riveted 
his eyes upon my aunt’s face. 

My right honorable uncle hastened immediately to 
close the rencontre with a vanquishing kiss upon my 
aunt’s snow-white hand, a fact which convinced me 
that their mutual love was endless. In general, I be- 
haved with remarkable respect toward that great rela- 
tion of ours, who lived in such beautiful apartments, 
and whose titles would not be contained in three lines. 

I was completely persuaded that Balnokhazy, my un- 
cle, had few superiors in celebrity in the world, for 
personal beauty ,except, perhaps, my brother Lorand) 
none; his wife was the most beautiful and happiest 
woman under the sun; and my cousin Melanie such 
an angel that, if she did not raise me up to heaven, I 
should surely never reach those climes. 

And if some one had said to me then, “ Let us begin 
at the beginning; that rich hair on Balnokhazy’s head 
is but a wig,” I should have demanded pardon for in- 
terrupting: I can find nothing of the least importance 
to say against the wearing of wigs. They are worn by 
those who have need of them; by those whose heads 
would be cold without them, who catch rheumatism 
easily with uncovered head. Finally, it is nought else 
but a head-covering for one of esthetic tastes; a cap 
made of hair. 

This is all true, all earnest truth; and yet I was 
greatly embittered against that some one who dis- 
covered to me for the first time that my uncle Balnok- 
hazy wore a wig, and painted his moustache (with 
some colored unguent, of course, nothing else). And 
Tam still the enemy of that some one who’ repeated that 
before me. He might have left me in happy ignorance. 

Even if some one had said that this showy .wealth, 
which indicated a noble affluence, was also such a, 
mere wig as the other, covering the baldness of his 
riches; if some one had said that these hand-kissing 
companions, in whose every word was melody when 


66 Debts of Honor 


they spoke the one to the other, that they did not love, 
but hated and despised one another; if some one had 
said that this lovely, ideal angel of mine even—but no 
farther, not so much at once! 

At the end of dinner our noble relations were so 
gracious as to permit my cousin Melanie to play the 
piano before us. She was only eight years old as yet, 
still she could play as beautifully as other girls of nine 
years. 

I had very rarely heard a piano; at home mother 
played sometimes, though she did not much care for 
it. Lorand merely murdered the scales, which was 
not at all entertaining for me. 

My cousin Melanie executed opera selections, and 
a French quadrille which excited my extremest admira- 
tion. My beautiful aunt laid stress upon the fact that 
she had only studied two years. A very intricate plan 
began to develop within me. 

Melanie played the piano, I the violin. Nothing 
could be more natural than that I should come here 
with my violin to play an obligato to Melanie’s piano; 
and if afterward we played violin and piano together 
perseveringly for eight or nine years, it would be im- 
possible that we should not in the end reach the goal 
of life on that road. 

In consequence I strove to display my usefulness by 
turning over the leaves of the music for her; and my 
pride was greatly hurt by the fact that my noble rela- 
tions did not ask grandmother how I understood how 
to read music. Finally the end came to this, as to 
every good thing; my cousin Melanie was not quite 
“up” in the remaining pieces, though I would have 
listened even to half-learned pieces, but my grand- 
mother was getting ready to return to the Fromms’. 
The Balnokhazys asked her to spend the night with 
them, but she replied that she had been there before, 
and that I was there too; and she would remain with 
the younger. I detested myself so for the idea that I 
was a drag upon my good grandmother; why, I ought 
to have kissed the dust upon her feet for those words: 


My Right Honorable Uncle 67 


“T shall remain with the younger.” My brother J 
envied, who for his part was *‘ at home” with the P. C. 

When I kissed my relations’ hands at parting, Bal- 
nokhazy thrust a silver dollar * into my hand, adding 
with magnificent munificence: 

“ For a little poppy-cake, you know.” 

Why, it is true, that in Pressburg very fine poppy- 
biscuits are made; and it is also true, that many poppy- 
goodies might be bought, a few at a time, for a dollar; 
likewise I cannot deny that so much money had never 
been in my hand, as my very own, to spend as [I liked. 
I would not have exchanged it for two other dollars, 
if it had not been given me before Melanie. I felt that 
it degraded me in her eyes. I could not discover what 
to do with that dollar. I scarce dared to look at Me- 
lanie when he departed; still I remarked that she did 
not look at me either when I left. 

At the door Lorand seized my hand. 

“ Desi,” said he severely, “ that thing that the P. C. 
thrust into your hand you must give to the butler, 
when he opens the carriage door.” 

I liked the idea. By that they would know who I 
was; and my eyes would no longer be downcast before 
cousin Melanie. 

But, when I thrust the dollar into the butler’s hand, 
I was so embarrassed by his matter-of-fact grandeur 
that any one who had seen us might have thought the 
butler had presented me with something. I hoped un- 
cle would not exclude me from his house for that. 

Long did that quadrille sound in my ears; long did 
that phenomenon-pianist haunt me; how long I cannot 
tell! 

She was the standard of my ambition, the prize of a 
long race, which must be won. In my imagination the 
whole world thronged before her. I saw the roads by 
which one might reach her. 

I too wished to be a man like them. I would learn 
diligently; I would be the first “eminence” in the 


* Thaler. 


_ 


68 Debts of Honor 


school, my teacher would take pride in me, and would 
say at the public examination: “ This will be a great 
man some day.” I would pass my barrister’s exams. 
with distinction; would serve my time under a sheriff ; 
would court the acquaintance of great men of distinc- 
tion; would win their favor by my gentle, humble con- 
duct ; I would be ready to serve; any work intrusted to 
me I would punctually perform; would not mix in evil 
company; would make my talent shine; would write 
odes of encomium, panegyrics, on occasions of note; 
till finally, I should myself, like my uncle, become “ sec- 
retarius,”’ ‘“‘ assessor,” “‘ septemvir,” and “ consiliarius.” 

Ea) tha.hal 

When we returned to Master Fromm’s, the delicate 
attention of little Miss Pugnose was indeed burden- 
some. She would prattle all kinds of nonsense. She 
asked of what the fine dinner consisted ; whether it was 
true that the daughter of the “ consiliarius ” had a doll 
that danced, played the guitar, and nodded its head. 
Ridiculous! As if people of such an age as Melanie 
and I interested themselves in dolls! I told Henrik 
to interpret this to her; I observed that it put her in a 
bad temper, and rejoiced that I had got rid of her. 

I remarked that I must go and study, and the lesson 
was long. So I went to my room and began to study. 
Two hours later I observed that nothing of what I had 
learnt remained in my head; every place was full of 
that councillor’s daughter. 

In the evening we again assembled in Master 
Fromm’s dining-room. Fanny again sat next to me, 
was again in good humor, treating me as familiarly 
as if we had been the oldest acquaintances; I was al- 
ready frightened of her. It would be dreadful for the 
Balnokhazys to suspect that one had a baker’s daughter 
as an acquaintance, always ready to jump upon one’s 
neck when she saw one. 

Well, fortunately she would be taken away next day, 
and then would be far away, as long as I remained in 
the house; we should be like two opposite poles, that 
avoid each other. 


My Right Honorable Uncle 69 


Before bedtime grandmother came into the room 
once more. She gave me my effects, counted over my 
linen. She gave me pocket-money, promising to send 
me some every month with Lorand’s. 

“Then I beg you,’ she whispered in my ear, “ take 
care of Lorand!” 

Again that word! 

Again that hint that I, the child, must take care of 
my brother, the young man! But the second time the 
meaning, which the first time I had not understood, 
burst at once clearly upon me; at first I thought, ‘“‘ Per- 
haps some mistaken wisdom or serious conduct on my 
part has deserved this distinction of looking after my 
brother.” Now I discovered that the best guardian 
was eternal love; and mother and grandmother 
knew well that I loved Lorand better than he loved 
himself. 

And indeed, what cause had they to fear for him? 
And from what could I defend him? 

Was he not living in the best place in the world? 
And did I not live far from him? 

Grandmother exacted from me a promise to write a 
diary of all that happened about us, and to send the 
same to her at the end of each month. I was to write 
all about Lorand too; for he himself was a very bad 
letter-writer. 

I promised. 

Then we kissed and took leave. They had to start 
early in the morning. 

But the next day, when the carriage stood at the 
door, I was waiting ready dressed for them. 

The whole Fromm family came down to the carriage 
to say adieu to the travellers. 

That girl who was going to occupy my place was sad 
herself. Methought she was much more winning, when 
sadness made her eyes downcast. 

One could see from her eyes that she had been weep- 
ing, that she was even now forcibly restraining herself 
from weeping. She spoke a few short words to me, and 
then disappeared behind grandmother in the carriage. 

The whip cracked, the horses started, and my sub- 


70 Debts of Honor 


stitute departed for my dear home, while I remained 
in her place. 

As I pondered for the first time over my great isola- 
tion, in a place where everybody was a stranger to me, 
and did not even understand my speech, at once all 
thought of the great man, the violin-virtuoso, the first 
eminence, the P. C., the heroic lover, disappeared from 
within me; I leaned my head against the wall, and 
would have wept could I have done so. 


CHAPTER: IV 
THE ATHEIST AND THE HYPOCRITE 


Ler us leave for a while the journal of the student 
child, and examine the circumstances of the family 
circle, whose history we are relating. 

There was living at Lankadomb an old heretic 
Samuel Topandy by name, who was related equally 
to the Balnokhazy and Aronffy families ; notwithstand- 
ing this, the latter would never visit him on account of 
his conspicuously bad habits. His surroundings were 
of the most unfortunate description, and in distant 
parts it was told of him that he was an atheist of the 
most pronounced type. 

‘But do not let any one think that the more modern 
freedom of thought had perhaps made Topandy cling 
to things long past, or that out of mental rationalism he 
had attempted, as a philosopher, to place his mind far 
beyond the visible tenets of religion. He was an athe- 
ist merely for his own amusement, that, by his denial of 
God, he might annoy those people—priests and the 
powers that be—with whom he came in contact. 

For to annoy, and successfully annoy, has always 
been held as an amusement among frail humanity. And 
what can more successfully annoy than the ridiculing of 

that which a man worships? 

The County Court had just put in a judicial “ deed 
of execution,” and had sent a magistrate, and a law- 
yer, supported by a posse of twelve armed gendarmes, 
for the purpose of putting an end, once for all, to those 
scandals, by which Topandy had for years been arous- 
ing the indignation of the souls of the faithful, caus- 
ing them to send complaint after complaint in to the 
court. 


mI 


72 Debts of Honor 


Topandy offered cigars to the official “ bailiffs.” 
The magistrate, Michael Daruszegi, a young man of 
thirty, appeared to be still younger from his fair face. 
They had sent the under, not the chief magistrate, be- 
cause he was a new hand, and would be more zealous. 
There is more firmness in a young man, and firmness 
was necessary when face to face with the disbeliever in 
God. 

“We did not come here to smoke, sir,’ was the dry 
reply of the young officer. ‘‘ We are on official busi- 
ness.” 

“The devil take official business. Don’t ‘ sir’ me, 
my dear fellow, but come, let us drink a ‘ chartreuse,’ 
and then tell your business, in company with the law- 
yer, to my steward. If money is required, break open 
the granaries, take as much wheat as will settle your 
claims, then dine with me; there will be some more 
good fellows, who are coming for a little music. And 
to-morrow morning we can make out the report and 
enter it in the protocol.” 

As he said this he kept continuous hold on the “ bail- 
iff’s ’ wrist, and led him inward into the inner room: 
and as he was far stronger by nature than the latter, 
it practically amounted to the leader of the attacking 
force being taken prisoner. 

“T protest! I forbid every kind of confidence! This 
is serious business!” 

In vain did the magistrate protest against his en- 
forced march. 

Soon the second part of the “legale testimonium ;” 
Mr. Francis Butzkay, the lawyer, came to his aid with 
his stumpy, short-limbed figure: he had gazed for a 
time in passive inactivity at the fruitless struggle of 
his principal with the “in causam vocatus.” 

“T hope the gentleman will not give cause for the 
use of force; for we shall fetter him hand and foot in 
such a manner that no better safeguard will be neces- 
sary.”” So saying, our friend the lawyer smiled com- 
plaisantly, all over his round face, looking, with his 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 73 


long moustache, for all the world like the moon, when a 
long cloud is crossing its surface. 

“Fetters indeed!” Topandy guffawed, “I should 
just like to see you! I beg you, pray put those fetters 
on me, merely for the sake of novelty, that I may be 
able to say: I also have had chains on me: at any rate 
on one of my legs, or one of my arms. It would be a 
damned fine amusement.” 

“Sir,” exclaimed the magistrate, freeing his hand. 
“You must learn to respect in us the ‘ powers that be.’ 
We are your judges, sent by the County Court, en- 
trusted with the task of putting an end to those scan- 
dals caused by you, which have filled every Christian 
soul with righteous indignation.” 

Topandy raised his eyes in astonishment at the en- 
voys of the “ powers that be.” 

“Oho, so it is not a case of a ‘ deed of execution?’ ”’ 

“By no means. It is a far more important matter 
that is at stake. The Court considers the. atheistical 
irreligious ‘ attentats ’ have gone too far and therefore 
has sent us—”’ 

“—-To preach me a sermon? No, sir magistrate, 
now you must really bring those irons, and put me in 
chains, and bind me, for unbound I will not listen to 
your sermon. Hold me down if you wish to preach 
words of devotion to me, for otherwise I shall bite, like 
a wild animal.” 

The magistrate retreated, in spite of his youthful 
daring; but the lawyer only smiled gently and did not 
even take his hands from behind his back. 

“ Really, sir, you must not get mad, or we shall have 
to take you to the Rokus hospital,* and put the strait- 
jacket on you.” 

“The devil blight you!” roared Topandy, making 
for the two judges, and then retiring before the un- 
disturbed smiling countenance of the lawyer. ‘‘ Well, 
and what complaint has the Court to make of me? 


* A hospital in Pest. 


74 Debts of Honor 


Have I stolen anything from anybody? Have I com- 
mitted incendiarism? Have ] committed a murder, 
that they come down so hard upon me?” 

The magistrate was a ready speaker: immediately he 
answered with: 

“Certainly, you have committed a theft: you have 
stolen the welfare of others’ souls. Certainly you are 
an incendiary: you have set fire to the peace of faithful. 
souls. Certainly you are a murderer: you have mur- 
dered the souls entrusted to you!” 

Topandy, seeing there was no escape, turned en- 
treatingly to the gendarmes who accompanied the mag- 
istrate. 

“ Boys, cherubims without wings, two of you come 
here and seize me, that I may not run away.” 

They obeyed him and laid hands on him. 

“ Well, my dear magistrate, fire away.” 

The worthy magistrate was annoyed, that this sorry 
business could not in any way assume a serious aspect. 

“Tn the first place I come to see the execution of 
that judgment which the honorable Court has passed 
upon you.” 

“T bow my head,’—growled Topandy in a tone of 
derisive subservience. 

“You have in your household youths and young 
girls growing up in various branches of service, who, 
born here, have never yet been baptized, thanks to your 
sinful neglect.” 

“ Excuse me, the general drying up of wells 

“ Don’t interrupt me,” bawled the magistrate. “ You 
should have produced your defence then and there, 
when and where you were accused; but as you did not 
appear at the appointed time, and obstinately procrasti- 
nated, you must listen to the sentence. All those boys 
and girls brought up within your premises must be 
taken into the country town and baptized according 
to the ordinances of religion.” 

“Could not the matter be finished here at once by 
the spring?” 


” 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 75 


The magistrate was beside himself with anger. But 
the good lawyer only smiled and said: 

“ Pray, sir, show a little common sense. The County 
Court compels none, against his will, to be a Christian: 
still one must belong to some religion. So if your lord- 
ship will not take the trouble to go with his household 
to the ‘ pater,’ well, we shall take him to the rabbi: that 
will do just as well.” 

Topandy laughingly shook a menacing fist at the 
lawyer. 

“You're a great gibbet! You always manage me. 
Well, let us rather go to the ‘ pater’ than to the rabbi; 
but at least let my servants keep their old names.” 

“That is also inadmissible,’ answered the magis- 
trate severely. “ You have given your servants names, 
of a kind not usually borne by men. One is called 
Pirdk,* another Czinke:fthe name of one little girl— 
God save the mark—is Beelzebub! Who would regis- 
ter such names as these? They will all receive re- 
spectable names to be found in the Christian calendar ; 
and any one, who dares to call them by the names they 
have hitherto borne shall pay as great a fine as if he had 
purposely calumniated a fellow-man. How many are 
there whom you have kept back in this manner from 
the water of Christianity?” 

“Four butlers, three maid-servants and two par- 
rots.” 

“Perjurer! Your every word is spittle in the face 
of the true believers.” 

“Oh, gag me. I beg you to save me from perjury.” 

“ Kindly call the people in question.” 

Topandy turned round and called to his butler who 
stood behind him: 

“Produce Pirdék, Estergalyos,{ Sepriinyél,$ then 


* Chaffinch. 

t Titmouse, names of birds given as pet names to these ser- 
vants. 

t Turner. 

éBroom. 


76 Debts of Honor 


Kakukfii,* and Macskalab;+ comfort them with the 
news that they are going to enter Heaven, and will re- 
ceive a fur-coat, a pair of boots, and a good gourd, 
from which the wine will never fail: all the gift of the 
honorable County Court.” 

‘“‘ For my part,” said the young representative of the 
law, standing on tip-toe, “ I must ask you seriously to 
answer, with the moderation due to our presence, have 
you hidden any one?” 

‘Whether I have stolen away someone on hell’s 
account? No, my dear fellow, I don’t court Satan’s 
acquaintance either: let him catch men for himself, if 
he can.” 

“T have a mandatum for your examination on oath.” 

“ Keep your mandatum in your pocket, and measure 
out thirty florins’ worth of oats from my granary: 
that’s the fine. For I don’t intend to be examined on 
oath.” 

“ Indeed? ” 

“Of course. If you bid me, I will swear: I’m a rare 
hand at it; I can swear for half an hour at a stretch 
without repeating myself.” 

Again the smiling lawyer intervened: 

“Give us your word of honor, then, that besides 
those produced, there is no servant in your household 
who has not yet been baptized. ” 

“Well, I give you my word of honor that there is 
not ‘in my household’ even a living creature who is a 
pagan.” 

Topandy’s word of honor only just escaped being 
broken ‘for that gypsy-girl, whom he had bought in 
her sixth year from encamping gypsies for two dollars 
and a sucking pig, now, ten years later, did not belong 
any more to the household, but presided at table when 
gentlefolk came to dinner. But she still bore that 
heathen name, which she had received in the reedy 
thicket. She was still called Czipra. , 


* Thyme. 
+ Catsfoot. 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 77 


And the godless fellow had snatched her away from 
the water of Christianity. 

“Has the honorable Court any other complaint to 
make against me?” 

“Yes, indeed. Not merely do you force your house- 
hold to be pagan, but you are accused of disturbing in 
their religious services others who make no secret of 
their devout feelings.” 

“For example?” 

““ Just opposite you is the courtyard of Mr. Nepomuk 
John Sarvélgyi,* who is a very righteous man.” 

“As far as I know, quite the opposite: he is always 
praying, a fact which proves that his sins must be very 
numerous.” 

“Tt is not your business to judge him. In our com- 
mon world it is a merit, if someone dares to display to 
the public eye the fact that he still respects religion, 
and it is the duty of the law to protect him.” 

“ Weil, and how have I scandalized the good fel- 
low ? ” 

“ Not long ago Mr. Sarvélgyi had a large Saint 
Nepomuk painted on the facade of his house, in oils 
on a sheet of bronze, and before the chief figure he was 
himself painted, in a kneeling position.” 

“T know: I saw it.” 

“From the lips of St. Nepomuk was flowing down 
in ‘ lapidarig ’ letters to the kneeling figure the follow- 
ing Latin saying: ‘ Mi fili, ego te nunquam deseram.’ ” 

“Tread the words.” 

“An iron grating was placed before the picture, and 
covered the whole niche, that infamous hands might 
not be able to touch it.” 

“A very wise idea.” 

“One morning following a very stormy night, to the 
astonishment of all, the Latin inscription had disap- 
peared from the picture, and in its place there stood: 
“Soon thou wilt pass from before me, thou old hypo- 
crite!’ ’’ 


* Mud-valley. 


78 Debts of Honor 


“T can’t help it, if the person in question changed 
his views.” 

“Why, certainly you can help it. The painter who 
prepared that picture, upon being cross-questioned, 
confessed and publicly affirmed that, in consideration 
of a certain sum of money paid by you, he had painted 
the latter inscription in oils, and over it, in water-col- 
ours, the former: so that the first shower washed off 
the upper surface from the picture, making the honest, 
zealous fellow an object of ridicule and contempt in his 
own house. Do you believe, sir, that such practical 
jokes are not punished by the hand of justice?” 

“T am not in the habit of believing much.” 

“Among other things, however, you are bound to 
believe that justice will condemn you, first to pay a 
fine for blackmail; secondly, to pay for the repairs 
your tricks have made necessary.” 

“T don’t see an atom of plaintiff’s counsel here.” 

“ Because plaintiff left the amount due him to the 
pleasure of the Court, to be devoted to charitable pur- 
poses.” 

“Good: then please break into the granaries.” 

“That we shall not do,” interrupted the lawyer: 
“later on we shall take it out of the ‘ regalia.’ ” 

Topandy laughed. 

“My dear, good magistrate. Do you believe all that 
is in the Bible?” 

“T am a true Christian.” 

“Then I appeal to your faith. In one place it stands 
that some invisible hand wrote, in the room of some 
pagan king—Belshazzar, if the story be true,— the 
following words,‘ Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.’ If that hand 
could write then, why could it not now have written. 
that second saying? And if it was the rain that washed 
away the righteous fellow’s words, you must accuse 
the rain, for the fault lies there.” 

“These are indeed very weighty counter-charges: 
and you might have declared them all before the Court, 
to which you were summoned: you might have ap- 
pealed even to the septemvirate, but as you did not ap- 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 79 


pear then, you must bear the consequences of your ob- 


stinacy.” 
“Good; I shall pay the price,” said Topandy laugh- 
ing :—‘‘ But it was a good joke on my part after all, 


wasn’t it?” 

The magistrate showed an angry countenance. 

“ There will be other good jokes, too. Kindly wait 
until the end.” 

“Ts the list of crimes still longer? ”’ 

“ A severe enquiry into the sources would never find 
anend. The gravest charge against you is the profana- 
tion of holy places.” 

“T profane some holy place? Why, for twenty 
years I have not been in the precincts even of a church 
steeple.” 

“You desecrated a place used long ago for holy 
ceremonies by riotous revels.” 

“Oh, you mean that, do you? Let us make distinc- 
tions, if you please. Great is the difference between 
place and place. Do you mean the convent of the Red 
Brothers? That is no church. The late Emperor Jo- 
seph drove them out, and their property was put up to 
auction by the State, together with all the buildings 
situate thereon. Thus it was that I came into posses- 
sion of the convent garden: I was there at the auction; 
I bid and it was knocked down to me. There were 
buildings on it, but whether any kind of church had 
been there I do not know, for they took away all the 
movables, and I found only bare walls. No kind of 
“servitus’ (engagement), as to what I would use the 
building for, had been included in the agreement 
of purchase. In this matter I know of others who were 
no more scrupulous. I know of a convent at Maria- 
Eich,* where in place of the ancient altar stands the 
peasant-chimney, and here the Swabian, into whose 
hands this honorable antiquity passed, keeps his 
maize ; why, in a town beside the Danube may be seen 


* A place in Austria where sacred relics exist. 


Bo Debts of Honor 


what was once a convent, the ‘ aerarium’ of which has 
been turned into a hospital.” 

“Examples cannot help you. If the Swabian peas- 
ant keeps ‘the blessing of God’ in that place, from 
which they had once prayed for it, that is not profanity: 
the ‘ aerarium’ too is pursuing an office of righteous- 
ness, in nursing bodily sufferings in the place where 
once mental sufferings gained comfort; but you have 
had disgusting pictures painted all over the walls that 
have come into your possession.” 

“| beg your pardon, the subjects are all chosen from 
classical literature: illustrations to the poems of 
Beranger and Lafontaine— Mon Curé,’ ‘Les Clefs Du 
Paradis,’ “Les Capulier,’ ‘Les Cordeliers Du Cata- 
logue,’ etc. Every subject a pious one.” 

“T know: I am acquainted with the originals of 
them. You may cover the walls of your own rooms 
with them, if you please: but I have brought four stone- 
workers with me, who, according to the judgment of 
the Court, are to erase all those pictures.” 

“Genuine iconoclasm!” guffawed Topandy, who 
found great amusement in arousing a whole county 
against him by his caprices. Iconoclasts! Picture- 
destroyers!” 

“There is something else we are going to destroy!” 
continued the magistrate. ‘‘ In that place there was a 
crypt. What has become of it?” 

“Tt is a crypt still.” 

“ What is in it?” 

“What is usually in a crypt: dead men of hallowed 
memory, who are lying in wooden coffins and waiting 
for the great awakening.” 

The magistrate made a face of doubt. He did not 
know whether to believe or not. 

“And when you and your revelling companions hold 
your Bacchanalia there?” 

“T object to the word ‘ Bacchanalia. ” 

“ True, it is still more. I should have used a stronger 
expression for that riot, when in scandalous undress, 
carrying in front a steak on a spit, the whole company 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 81 


sings low songs such as ‘ Megalljon Kend’* and 
‘ Hetes, nyloczas,’t and in this guise makes scandalous 
processions from castle to cloister.” 

“The authorities must indeed be greatly embittered 
against me, if they see anything scandalous in the fact 
that a body of good-humored men undress to the skin, 
when they are warm. As far as the so-called low songs 
are concerned, they have such innocent words, they 
might be printed in a book, while the melodies are very 
pious.” 

“The scandal is just that, that you parody pious 
songs, setting them to trivial words. ‘Tell me what is 
the good of singing the eight cards of the pack{ as a 
hymn. And if you are in a good humor, why do you 
go with it to the crypt?” 

“You know we go there for a little mumony feast.” 

“Yes, for a little ‘ Mumon,’” interrupted the law- 
yer. 

“ That’s just what I meant,” said the atheist, laugh- 
ing. 
“What?” roared the magistrate, who now began 
to understand the enigma of the dead lying in their 
wooden coffins: “ perhaps that is a cellar?”’ 

“ Of course: I never had a better cellar than that.” 

“ And the dead, and the coffins? ” 

“ Twenty-five round coffins, full of wine. Come, my 
dear sir, taste them all. I assure you you won't regret 
it, 

The magistrate was now really in a fury: fury made 
a lion of him, so that he was quite capable of tearing 
his wrists by sheer force out of the imprisoning hands. 

“ An end to all familiarity! You stand before the 


*“ Stop (you),” “ Kend” being the pleasant abbreviation 
for “ Kegyed,’ one method of addressing (literally “ your 
grace’), corresponding to our “ you.” 

+ “ Seven and eight,” referring to the number on the playing 
cards: the Austrian National Hymn is sung by great patriots 
to these words: the “king” and “ace” being the highest two 
cards, come together; and this is in Magyar kiraly (king), 
diszno (ace); is also “ swein.” 

tIn Magyar cards the pack begins with the 7. 


82 Debts of Honor 


authority of the law, with whom you cannot trifle. 
Give me the keys of the cloister, that I may clean the 
profaned place.” 

“ Please break open the door.” 

“Would you not be sorry to ruin a patent lock?” 
suggested the lawyer. 

‘““ Well, promise me that you will taste at least ‘ one’ 
brand: then I will open the door, for I don’t intend 
to open any door under the title of ‘ cloister,’ but any 
number under the title of ‘ cellar;’ and in that case I 
shall pay in ready money.” 

The worthy lawyer tugged at the magistrate’s sleeve ; 
prudence yielded, and there are bounds to severity, too. 

“Very well, the lawyer will taste the wine, but | am 
no drinker.” 

Topandy whispered some words in his butler’s ears, 
whereupon that worthy suddenly disappeared. 

“So you see, my dear fellow, we are agreed at last: 
now I should like to see the account of how much I 
owe to the county for my slight upon the Brotherhood.” 

“Here is the calculation: two hundred florins with 
costs, which amount to three florins, thirty kreuzer.”’ 

(This happened thirty years ago.) 

“ Further? ” 

“ Further, the repair of the damage caused by you, 
the expenses of the present expedition, the daily pay 
and sustenance of the stone-masons aforesaid: making 
in all a sum total of two hundred and forty-three flo- 
rins, forty kreuzers.” 

“A large sum, but I shall produce it from some- 
where.” 

With the words Topandy drew out from his chest a 
drawer, and carrying it bodily as it was, put it down 
on the great walnut table, before the authorities of the 
law. 

“Here it is!” 

The interesting members of the law first drew back 
in alarm, and then commenced to roar with laughter. 
That drawer was filled with—I cannot express it in one 
word—but generally speaking—with paper. 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 83 


A great variety of aged bank notes, some before the 
depreciation of value, others of a late date, still in cur- 
rency: long bank-notes, black bank-notes, red spotted 
bank-notes; then, old cards: Hungarian, Swiss, 
French; old theatre-tickets, market pictures, the well- 
known product of street-humor: the tailor riding on 
a goat, the devil taking off bad women, a portrait of 
the long-moustached mayor of Nuremberg: a pile of 
envelopes, all heaped together in a huddle. 

That was Topandy’s savings bank. 

He would always spend silver and gold money, but 
money paid to him in bank-notes, which he had to ac- 
cept, he would put by year by year among this col- 
lection of cards, funny pictures, and theatrical pro- 
grammes; this heap of value was never disturbed ex- 
cept when, as at present, some enforced visit had to be 
put up with, some so-called “ execution.” 

“ Please, help yourselves.” 

“What?” cried the magistrate. “ Must we pick out 
the value from the non-value in this rubbish? ” 

“ Now I am not so well-informed an expert as to dis- 
tinguish what is recalled from what is still in circula- 
tion. Still my good friend is right, it is my duty to 
count out, yours to receive.” 

Then he plunged his hand into the treasure-heap, 
and counted over the bits of paper. 

“This is good, this is not. This is still new, this is 
surely torn. Here’s a five florin, here a ten florin note. 
This is the Knave of Hearts.” 

A little discussion occurred when he counted a label 
that had been removed from an old champagne bottle, 
as a ten florin note. 

The gentlemen took exception to that: it must be 
thrown away. 

“What, is this not money? It must be money. It 
is a French bank-note. There is written on it ten flo- 
rins. Cliquot will pay if you take it to him.” 

Then he began to explain several comical pictures, 
and bargained with the authorities—how much would 
they give for them? he had paid a big price for them. 


84 Debts of Honor 


Finally the worthy lawyer had again to intervene: 
otherwise this liquidation might have lasted till the fol- 
lowing evening; then, after a strict search in a critical 
manner, he withdrew two hundred and forty-three flo- 
rins from the pile. 

“A little water if you please, I should like to wash 
my hands,”’ said the lawyer after his work, feeling like 
one who has separated the raw wheat from the tares. 

“Like Pilate after passing judgment,” jested To- 
pandy. “You shall have all you want at once. Al- 
ready there is an end to the legal manipulation: we are 
no longer ‘legale testimonium’ and ‘incattus,’ but 
guest and host.” 

“God forbid,’ repudiated the magistrate retiring 
towards the door. “ We did not come in that guise. 
We do not wish to trouble you any longer.” 

“Trouble indeed!” said the accused, guffawing. 
“What, do you think this matter has been any trouble 
to me?—on the contrary, the most exquisite amuse- 
ment! This annoyance of the county against me I 
would not sell for a thousand florins. It was glorious. 
‘Execution!’ Legally erased pictures! An investiga- 
tion into my private behavior! I shall live for a year 
on this joke. And you will see, my friends, I shall do 
so again soon. I shall find out some plan for getting 
them to take me in irons to the Court: a battalion of 
soldiers shall come for me, and they shall make me the 
son of the warden! Ha! ha! May I be damned if I 
don’t succeed in my project! If they would but put 
me in prison for a year, and make me saw wood in the 
courtyard of the County Court, and clean the boots of 
the Lieutenant Governor. That is a capital idea! I 
shall not die until I reach that.” 

In the meantime a butler arrived with the water,. 
while a second opened another door and invited the 
guests with much ceremony to partake in the pleasure 
of the table. 

“Her ladyship invites the honorable gentlemen’s 
company at déjeuner.” 

The magistrate looked in perplexity at the lawyer, 





The Atheist and the Hypocrite 85 


who turned to the basin and hid his laughing face in his 
hands. 

“You are married?” the magistrate enquired of To- 
pandy. 

“Oh dear no,” he answered, “she is not my wife, 
but my sister.” 

“But we are invited to dinner in the neighbor- 
hood.” 

“By Mr. Sarvolgyi? That does not matter. If a 
man wishes to dine at Sarvolgyi’s, he will be wise. to 
have déjeuner first. Besides | have your word to drink 
a glass as a ‘conditio sine qua non;’ besides a chival- 
rous man cannot refuse the invitation of a lady.” 

The last pretext was conclusive; it was impossible to 
refuse a lady’s invitation, even if a man has armed 
force at his command. He is obliged to yield to the su- 
perior power. 

The magistrate allowed the third attempt to succeed, 
and was dragged by the arm into the dining-room. 

Topandy audibly bade the butlers look after the wants 
of the gendarmes and stone-masons, and give them 
enough to eat and drink: and, when our friend, the 
magistrate, prepared to object, interrupted him with: 
“ Kindly remember the ‘execution’ is over, and con- 
sider that those good fellows are tearing off plaster 
from the cloister walls, and the paint-dust will go to 
their lungs: and it shall not be my fault if any harm 
touches the upholders of public security. This way, if 
you please: here comes my sister.” 

Through the opposite door came the above men- 
tioned “ ladyship.” 

She could not have been taken for more than fifteen 
years old: she was wearing a pure white dress, trimmed 
with lace, according to the fashion of the time, and 
bound round her slender waist with a broad rose- 
colored riband; her complexion. was brunette, and 
pale, in contrast to her ruddy round lips, which. al- 
lowed to flash between their velvet surfaces the most 
lovely pearly set of teeth imaginable: her two thick 
eyebrows almost met on her brow, and below her long 


86 Debts of Honor 


eyelashes two restless black eyes beamed forth: like 
coal, that is partly aglow. 

Sir Magistrate was surprised that Topandy had such 
a young sister. 

“My guests,” said Topandy, presenting the servants 
of the law to her ladyship. 

“Oh! I know,” remarked the young lady in a gay 
light-hearted tone. ‘* You have come to put in an ‘ exe- 
cution ’ against his lordship. You did quite right: you 
ought to treat him so. You don’t know the hun- 
dredth part of his godless dealings. For did you know, 
you would long since have beheaded him three times 
over.” 

The magistrate found this sincere expression of sis- 
terly opinion most remarkable; still, notwithstanding 
that he took his seat beside her ladyship. 

The table was piled with cold viands and old wines. 

Her ladyship entertained the magistrate with con- 
versation and tasty tit-bits, meanwhile the lawyer was 
quietly drinking his glasses with the host,—nor was it 
necessary to ask him to help himself. 

“ Believe me,” remarked her ladyship: “if this man 
ever reaches hell, they will give him a special room, 
so great are his merits. I have already grown tired of 
trying to reform him.” 

“Has your ladyship been staying long in this 
house?” enquired the magistrate. 

“Oh, ten years already.” 

(“ How old could the lady have been then?” the 
magistrate thought to himself: but he could not 
answer. ) 

“Just imagine what he does. A few days ago he 
put up an old saint among the vines as a scarecrow, 
with a broken hat on his head.” 

The magistrate turned with a movement of scorn 
towards the accused. It would not be good for him 
if that, too, came to the ears of the Court. 

“Do not speak, for you do not understand what 
you're saying,” replied Topandy by way of explanation. 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 87 


“Tt was an ugly statue of Pilate, a relic of the ancient 
Galvary 

“Well, and wasn’t that holy?” enquired the flash- 
ing-eyed damsel. 

The magistrate began to rise from his chair. (Her 
ladyship must have had a curious education if she did 
not even know who Pilate was.) 

Topandy broke out in unrestrained laughter. Then, 
as if he desired by an earnest word to repair the in- 
sult his language had given, he said to the lady with a 
pious face: 

“Well, if you are right, was it not a gracious act on 
my part to give a permanent occupation to such an 
honest fellow, who had been degraded from office; and 
as he was bare-headed I gave him a hat to protect him 
against changes of the weather. However, don’t treat 
our friend to a series of incriminations, but rather to 
that deer-steak ; you see he does not venture to taste it.” 

Her ladyship did as she was told. 

The magistrate was obliged to eat: in the first place 
because it was a beautiful woman that offered the vi- 
ands to him, secondly because everything she offered 
was so good. He had to drink, too, because she kept 
filling his glass and calling on him to “clink” with 
her, herself setting the example. She drained that 
sparkling liquor from her glass just as if it had been 
pure water. And those wines were truly remarkably 
strong. The magistrate could not refuse the appeal of 
her ladyship’s beautiful eyes. 

“ Forbidden fruit is sweet.” The magistrate exper- 
ienced the truth of the saying keenly, in so far as one 
may place among forbidden fruit the déjeuner of which 
a man partakes in the house of a godless fellow, destroy- 
ing his appetite for the ensuing dinner to which he is 
invited by a pious man. 


* Many such Calvaries exist in Hungary: they may be seen 
by the roadside,and are used as places of pilgrimage by pious 
peasants and others: there is always a picture of Christ 
crucified or a figure of the same. 


88 Debts of Honor 


The courses seemed endless: cold viands were fol- 
lowed by hot, and the beautiful young damsel could 
offer so kindly, that the magistrate was powerless to 
resist. 

“Just a little of this “majoraine’ sausage. I myself 
made it yesterday evening.” 

The magistrate was astonished. Her ladyship busied 
herself with such things? When the sausage had dis- 
appeared, he made a remark about it. 

“Yet no one would imagine that these delicate hands 
could busy themselves with other things than sewing, 
piano-playing, and the turning over of gold-bordered 
leaves. Have you read the almanacs of the parlia- 
ment?” 

At this question Topandy burst into loud laughter, 
while the lawyer covered his mouth with his napkin, the 
laughter stuck in his throat: the magistrate could not 
imagine what there could be to ridicule in this ques- 
tion. 

Her ladyship answered quite unconsciously: 

“Oh! there are some fine airs in it: I know them. 
If you will listen, I will sing them.” 

The magistrate thought there must be some misun- 
derstanding: still, if her ladyship cared to sing, he 
would be only too delighted to listen. 

“Which do you want ‘ Vienna Town’ or ‘ Rose- 
bud?’” 

“Both,” said the host, “and into the bargain the 
latest parliamentary air, ‘Come Down from the Cross, 
and Fly to the Poplar-tree.’ But let us go out of the 
dining-room to hear the songs; the forks and plates 
are rattling too much here: we'll go to my sister’s room. 
There she will sing to the accompaniment of a Magyar 
piano. Have you ever seen a Magyar piano, my 
friend?”’ 

“T don’t remember having done so.” 

“ Well, it is beautiful: you must hear it. My sister 
plays it wonderfully.” 

The magistrate offered his arm to her ladyship, and 


“He eee 





The Atheist and the Hypocrite 89 


the company entered the next room, which was the 
lady’s apartment. 

It was an elegant, finely-decorated room, with ma- 
hogany and ebony furniture, richly carved and gilded, 
with huge glass-panelled chests, and heavy silk cur- 
tains yet there was a striking difference between this 
room and those of other ladies; all these expensive dra- 
peries, as far as their form and ordering was concerned, 
did not at all correspond with the usual appanage of a 
boudoir. 

In one corner stood a loom of mahogany, richly in- 
laid with ivory: it was still covered wth some half- 
finished work, in which flowers, butterflies, and birds 
had been worked with remarkable refinement. 

“You see,’ said the lady, “this is my work-table. 
I am responsible also for that table-cloth on which we 
breakfasted to-day.” 

Indeed she had received an unusual education. 

Beside the loom was a spinning wheel. 

“ And this is my library,” said the lady, pointing to 
the cupboards against the wall. 

Through the glass panels was to be seen a host of 
every kind of culinary bottles. On the bottom shelf 
the great folios; every kind of vinegar that grows in 
hot-houses ; the second row was full of preserved cu- 
cumbers; and then on the top shelf different sorts of 
confitures in brilliant perfection; last of all, a row of 
fruit extracts was visible, in colors as numerous as 
the bottles that contained them. 

“A magnificent library!” said the lawyer. But the 
magistrate could not yet clearly make out what kind of 
lady it might be, who called such things a library. 

The heavy velvet curtains, which made a kind of tent 
of the alcove, also had their secret: the young lady 
raised the curtain and said naively, 

“This is my sleeping place.” 

An embroidered quilt laid out on a plank, nothing 
more. 

Indeed, a curious, most remarkable education. 

Beside the bed stood a large copper cage. 


go Debts of Honor 


“ This is my pet bird,” said the fair lady, pointing 
at the creature within. — 

It was a large black cock, which rose angrily as’ the 
strangers approached, and crowed in an agonized man- 
ner, shaking its red comb furiously. 

“You see, this is my old comrade, who takes care of 
me! and is at the same time my clock, waking me at 
daybreak.” And the lady’s look became quite tender, 
as she placed her hand on the wrathful creature. At 
her gentle touch the bird clucked his satisfaction. 

“When I go outside, he accompanies rne, loose, like 
a dog.” 

The black monster, as long as he saw strangers, only 
noted in quiet tones the fact that he had remarked their 
presence, but as soon as Topandy stepped forward, he 
suddenly broke out into a clarion cry, as if he wished 
to arouse every hen-roost in the property to the fact 
that there was a fox in the garden. Every feather 
on his neck stood bolt upright, like a Spanish shirt- 
collar. 

“He will soon be quiet,’ the young lady assured the 
guests :—“ for he will listen to music.” 

So we are about to see the Magyar piano? It 
was but a “czimbalom.” * It is true that it was a mar- 
vellous work of art, inlaid with ebony and mother-of- 
pearl; the nails on which the strings were stretched 
were of silver, the groundwork a mosaic of coloured 
woods; the two drumsticks lying upon the strings had 
handles of red coral; the stand on which the “ czim- 
balom”’ rested was a marvellously perfected specimen 
of the carpenter’s art, giving a strong tone to the in- 
strument; and before it was a little, round, armless 
chair covered with red velvet, its feet golden tiger- 
claws. Yet it was certainly strange that a young lady 
should play the “ czimbalom,” that country instrument 


*The peculiar and characteristic Magyar instrument 
which is indispensable to every gypsy orchestra, taking the 
place of harp and piano. It is in the form of a zither of large 
size, played with padded sticks, and forms the foundation of 
these wandering bands. 





The Atheist and the Hypocrite gt 


which they are wont to carry under the covering of a 
ragged coat, and to place upon inn-tabies, or up-turned 
barrels.—Here it appeared among mahogany furniture, 
to serve as accompaniment to a young lady’s voice, 
while she herself with her delicate fingers beat the mel- 
ody out of the plaintive instrument for all the world as 
if she were seated beside a piano. Incongruous enough, 
for we have always thought of the “ czimbalom-artist ” 
as a gawky bushy-bearded fellow with the indispens- 
able short-stemmed clay-pipe—all burned out and be- 
ing sucked only for its bitter taste. 

And the whole “ czimbalom ” playing is such a jest, 
so grotesque; the player’s arms jerk and wave con- 
tinuously ; his whole shoulder and head are in perpetual 
motion ; whereas, with the piano, the five fingers do all; 
the artist’s relation to the piano is that of my lord to 
his children, whom he addresses from a far-off height; 
the czimbalom-player is “ per tu” with his instrument. 

But the young lady had the grace of one born to the 
instrument. As she took the sticks in her hands and 
struck a chord upon the outstretched strings, her 
face assumed a new expression; so far, we must con- 
fess, there had been much “ naiveté ” in it, now she felt 
at home; this was her world. 

She sang two songs to the guests, both taken from 
what are called in our country “ Parliamentary airs ;” 
they used to break forth in “ juratus ” coffee-houses, 
during the sitting of Parliament, when there was more 
spirit in the youths of the country than now. 

The one hada fine impassioned refrain: ‘‘ From Vien- 
na town, from west to east, the wind hath a cold blast.” 
The end of it was that the Danube water is bitter, for 
at Pressburg many bitter tears have flowed into it, 
“ Which the great ones of our land have shed, because 
Ragalyi was not sent to be ambassador.” Now patriots 
are more sparing with their tears; but in those days 
much bitterness was expressed with the air of ‘ Vien- 
na town.” 

The other air was “ Rose-bud, laurel,” which had also 
a pretty refrain; it is full of such expressions as “ altars 


g2 Debts of Honor 


of freedom,” ‘angels of freedom,” ‘“‘ wreaths of free- 
dom,” and other such mythological things. How. the 
strings responded to the young woman’s touch, what 
expression was in her refrain! It was as if she felt the 
meaning of those beautiful “ flosculi”’ best of all, and 
must suffer more than all for them. : 

Then she introduced a third parliamentary song, the 
contents of which were satirical; but the satire was 
purely local and personal, and would not be intelligible 
to people of modern days. 

Topandy was inexpressibly pleased by it: he asked 
for it again. Someone had ridiculed the priests in it, 
but in such a manner that no one, unless he had had it 
explained could understand it. 

The magistrate was quite enraptured by the simple 
instrument; he would never have believed that anyone 
could play it with such masterly skill. 

“Tell me,” he asked her ladyship, not being able any 
longer to conceal his astonishment, “ where you learned 
to play this instrument.” 

At these words her ladyship broke into such a fit of 
laughter, that, if she had not suddenly steadied herself 
with her feet against the czimbalom stand, she would 
have fallen over. As it was, her hair being, according 
to the fashion of the day, coiled up “a la Giraffe” 
round a high comb, and the comb falling from her head, 
her two tresses of raven hair fell waving over her 
shoulders to the floor. 

At this the young lady discontinued laughing, and 
not succeeding at all in her efforts to place her di- 
shevelled hair around the comb again, suddenly twisted 
it together on her head and fastened it with a spindle 
she snatched from the spinning wheel. 

Then to recover her previous high spirits, she again 
took up the czimbalom sticks, and began to play some 
quiet melody on the instrument. 

It was no song, no variations on well-known airs; it 
was some marvellous reverie; a frameless picture, a 
landscape without horizon. A plaint, in a voice rather 
playful over something serious that is long past, and 





The Atheist and the Hypocrite 93 


that can never come back again, avowed to no one by 
word of mouth, only handed down from generation to 
generation on the resounding strings—the song of the 
beggar who denies that he has ever been king :—the 
song of the wanderer, who denies that he ever had a 
home and yet remembers it, and the painof the recollec- 
tion is heard in the song. No one knows or under- 
stands, perhaps not even the player, who merely 
divines it and meditates thereon. It is the desert wind, 
of which no one knows whence it comes and whither it 
goes ; the driving Cloud, of which no one knows whence 
it arose, and whither it disappears. A homeless, un- 
substantial, immaterial bitterness ... a flowerless, 
echoless, roadless desert. . . full of mirages. 

The magistrate would have listened till evening, no 
matter what became of the neighbor’s dinner, if To- 
pandy had not interrupted him with the sceptical re- 
mark that this lengthened steel wire has far more soul 
than a certain two-footed creature, who affirms that 
he was the image of God. 

And thus he again drew the attention of the worthy 
gentleman to the fact that he was in the home of a 
denier of God. 

Then they heard the mid-day curfew, which made 
the black cock, with fluttering wings, begin his monot- 
onous clarion, for all the world like the bugle call of 
some watch-tower, whose taran-tara! gives the sign to 
its inhabitants. 

At this the lady’s face suddenly lost its sad expres- 
sion of melancholy ; she put down the czimbalom-sticks, 
leaped up from her chair, and with natural sincerity 
asked, 

“It was a beautiful song, was it not?” 

“Indeed it was. What is it?” 

“Hush! that you may not ask.” 

The tawyer had to call the magistrate’s attention to 
the fact that it was already time to depart, as there was 
still another “ entertainment ” in store for them. 

At this they all laughed. 

“Tam very sorry that it was my fortune to make 


94 Debts of Honor 


your acquaintance, on such an occasion as the present,” 
said the young officer of the law, as he bade farewell, 
and shook hands with his host. 

‘“ But I rejoice at the honor, and I hope I may have 
the pleasure of seeing you again—on the occasion of 
the next ‘ execution ’.” 

Then the magistrate turned to her ladyship, to thank 
her for her kind hospitality. 

To do so he sought the young lady’s hand with in- 
tention to kiss it; but before he could fulfill his 
intention, her ladyship suddenly threw her arms around 
his neck and imprinted as healthy a kiss on his face 
as anyone could possibly wish for. 

The magistrate was rather frightened than rejoiced 
at this unexpected present. Her ladyship had indeed 
peculiar habits. He scarcely knew how he arrived in 
the road; true, the wine had affected his head a little, 
for he was not used to it. 

From Topandy’s castle to Sarvolgyi’s residence one 
had to cross a long field of clover. 

The lawyer led his colleague as far as the gate of this 
field by the arm, sauntering along by-his side. But, as 
soon as they were within the garden, Mr. Buczkay said 
to the magistrate: 

“Please go in front, I will follow behind; I must 
remain behind a little to laugh myself out.” 

Thereupon he sat down on the ground, clasped his 
hands over his stomach, and commenced to guffaw; 
he threw himself flat upon the grass, kicking the earth 
with his feet, and shouting with merriment the while. 

The young officer of the law was beside himself with 
vexation, as he reflected: “ this man is horribly tipsy; 
how can I enter the house of such a righteous man 
with a drunken fellow?” 

Then when Mr. Buczkay had given satisfaction to 
the demands of his nature, according to which his mer- 
riment, repressed almost to the bursting point, was 
obliged to break loose in a due proportion of laughter, 
he rose again from the earth, dusted his clothes, and 
with the most serious countenance under the sun said, 
“Well, we can proceed now.” 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 5 


Sarvolgyi’s house was unlike Magyar country 
residences, in that the latter had their doors night and 
day on the latch, with at most a couple of bulldogs on 
guard in the courtyard—and these were there only with 
_ the intention of imprinting the marks of their muddy 

paws on the coats of guests by way of tenderness. 
Sarvolgyi’s residence was completely encircled with a 
stone wall, like some town building: the gate and small 
door always closed, and the stone wall crowned 
with a continuous row of iron nails:—and,—what is 
unheard of in country residences—there was a bell at 
the door which he who desired to enter had to ring. 

The gentlemen rang for a good quarter of an hour 
at that door, and the lawyer was convinced that no one 
would come to open it; finally footsteps were heard in 
the hall, and a hoarse, shrill woman’s voice began to 
make enquiries of those without. 

“Who is there? ” 

HONS ate.” 

“Who are ‘ we’?”’ 

“ The guests.” 

“ What guests? ” 

“ The magistrate and the lawyer.” 

Thereupon the bolts were slipped back with difficulty, 
and the questioner appeared. She was, as far as age 
was concerned, a little “beyond the vintage.’ She 
wore a dirty white kitchen apron, and below that a 
second blue kitchen apron, and below that again a third 
dappled apron. It was this woman’s custom to put 
on as many dirty aprons as possible. 

“Good day, Mistress Boris,’ was the lawyer’s greet- 
ing. “ Why, you hardly wished to let us in.” 

“TI crave your pardon. I heard the bell ring, but 
could not come at once. I had to wait until the fish 
was ready. Besides, so many bad men are hereabouts, 
wandering beggars, ‘ Arme Reisenden,’ * that one must 
always keep the door closed, and ask ‘ who is there?’ ” 

“Tt is well, my dear Boris. Now go and lock efter 


*Poor travellers. 


96 Debts of Honor 


that fish, that it may not burn; we shall soon find the 
master somewhere. Has he finished his devotions?” 

“Yes; but he has surely commenced anew. The 
bells are ringing the death-toll, and at such times he is 
accustomed to say one extra prayer for the departed 
soul. Don’t disturb him, I beg, or he will grumble 
the whole day.” 

Mistress Boris conducted the gentlemen into a large 
room, which, to judge from the table ready laid, served 
as dining room, though the intruder might have taken 
it for an oratory, so full was it of pictures of those hal- 
lowed ones, whom we like to drag down to ourselves, 
it being too fatiguing to rise up to them. 

And in that idea there is much that is sublime. A 
picture of Christ in the mourning widow’s chamber; a 
““mater dolorosa,” in the distracted mother’s home; a 
“kerchief”’ of the Holy Virgin, spotiessly white, like 
the glorious spirit, above the bed of olden times, are 
surely elevating, and honorable presences, the recollec- 
tions which lead us to them are holy and imperish- 
able, as is the devotion which bows the knee before 
them. But a repugnant sight is the home of the Phar- 
isee, who surrounds himself with holy images that men 
may behold them. 

Sarvolgyi allowed his guests to wait a long time, 
though they were, as it happened, not at all impatient. 

Great ringing of bells announced his coming; this 
being a sign he was accustomed to give to the kitchen, 
that the dinner could be served. Soon he appeared. 

He was a tall, dry man, of slight stature, and so small 
was his head that one could scarce believe it could 
serve for the same purposes as another man’s. 
His smoothly shaven face did not betray his age; the 
skin of his cheeks was oil yellow, his mouth small, his 
shoulders rounded, his nose large, mal-formed and 
unpleasantly crooked. 

He shook hands very cordially with his guests; he 
had long had the honor of the lawyer’s acquaintance, 
but it was his supreme pleasure to see the magistrate 
to-day for the first time. But he was extremely courte- 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 97 


ous, not a feature of his countenance betraying any 
emotion. 

The magistrate seemed determined not to say a word. 
So the brunt of the conversation fell on the lawyer. 

“We have happily concluded the ‘ execution”’.” 

That was naturally the most convenient topic for the 
commencement of the conversation. 

“T am sorry enough that it had to be so,” sighed 
Sarvolgyi. ‘“‘ Apart from the fact that Topandy is un- 
ceasingly persecuting me, I respect and like him very 
much. I only wish he would turn over a new leaf. He 
would be an excellent fellow. I know I made a great 
mistake when I accused him out of mere self-love. I 
am sorry I did so. I cught to have followed the com- 
mand of scripture, “ If he smite thee on thy right cheek, 
offer him thy left cheek also.’ ” 

“Under such circumstances there would be very 
few criminal processes for the courts to consider.”’ 

“T confess I rejoiced this morning when the commis- 
sion of execution arrived. I felt an inward happiness, 
due to the fact that this foe of mine had fallen, that he 
was trampled under my feet. I thought: he is now 
gnashing his teeth and snapping at the heels of justice 
that stamp upon his head. And I was glad >f it. Yet 
my gladness was sinful, for no one may rejoice at the 
destruction of the fallen, and the righteous cannot be 
glad at the danger of a fellow creature. It was a sin 
for which I must atone.” 

The simplest atonement, thought the lawyer, would 
be for him to return the amount of the fine. 

“For this I have inflicted a punishment upon my- 
self,” said Sarvélgyi, piously bowing his head. ‘“ Oh, 
I have always punished myself for any misdemeanor, 
I now condemn myself to one day’s fasting. My pun- 
ishment will be, to sit here beside the table and watch 
the whole dinner, without touching anything my- 
Belt.” 

It will be very fine! thought the lawyer. He is de- 
termined to fast, while we have taken our fill yonder. 
So we shall all look at the whole dinner, without tast- 


98 Debts of Honor 


ing anything,—and Mistress Boris will sweep us out 
of the house. 

“ My friend the magistrate’s head is doubtless ach- 
ing after his great official fatigue!” Sarvolgyi said, 
hitting the nail right on the head. 

“Tt is indeed true,” remarked the lawyer assuringly. 
The young official was in need rather of rest than of 
feasting. There are good, blessed mortals, whom two 
glasses of wine immediately send to sleep, and to whom 
it is the most exquisite torture to be obliged to remain 
awake. 

“ My suggestion is,” said the lawyer, “ that it would 
be good for the magistrate to repose in an armchair 
and rest himself, until the cleaning of the cloister is 
finished, and we can again take our seats in the car- 
riage.” 

“Sleep is the gift of Heaven,” said the man of piety: 
“it would be a sin to steal it from a fellow-man. Kind- 
ly make yourself comfortable at once in this room.” 

It was an extremely difficult process to make oneself 
comfortable on that apology for an arm-chair; it 
seemed to have been prepared as a resting place for 
ascetics and body-torturers: still the magistrate sat 
down in it, craved pardon,—and fell asleep. And then 
he dreamed that he saw before him again that laid-out 
table, where one guest sat two yards from the other 
while all round holy pictures were hanging on the 
walls, with their faces turned away, as if they did not 
wish to gaze upon the scene. In the middle of the 
room there was hanging from the ceiling a heavy chan- 
delier with twelve branches, and on it was swaying the 
host himself. 

What a cursed foolery is a dream! The host was 
actually sitting there vis-a-vis with the lawyer, at the 
other end of the long table; for Mistress Boris had so 
laid the places. And as the magistrate’s place re- 
mained empty, host and guest sat so far apart that the 
one was incapable of helping the other. 

At last the door opened, with such a delicate creaking 
that the lawyer thought somebody was ringing to be 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite 99 


admitted:—It was Mistress Boris bringing in the 
soup. 

The lawyer was determined to make some sacrifice, 
in order to maintain the dignity of the “ legale testimon- 
ium,” by dining a second time. He thought himself 
capable of this heroic deed. 

He was deceived. 

There is a peculiarity of the Magyar which has 
not yet been the subject of song: his stomach will not 
stand certain things. 

This a stranger cannot understand: it is a “ speci- 
ficum.” 

When Vorosmarty sang that “in the great world 
outside there is no place for thee,” * he found it un- 
necessary to add the reason for that, which every man 
knows without his telling them:—‘“in every land 
abroad they cook with butter.” 

A Magyar stomach detests what is buttery. He 
becomes melancholy and sickly from it; he runs away 
from the very mention of it, and if some sly house- 
keeper deceitfully gives him buttery things to eat, all 
his life long he considers that as an attempt upon his 
life, and will never again sit down to such a poison- 
mixer’s table. 

You may place him where you like abroad, still he 
will long to return from the cursed butter-smelling 
world, and if he cannot he grows thin and fades away: 
and like the giraffe in the European climate, he cannot 
reproduce his kind in a foreign land. Roughly speak- 
ing, all his neighbors cook with butter, oil and drip- 
ping: and “be harsh or kind, the hand of fate, here 
thou must live, here die.” + 

The lawyer was a true Magyar of the first water. 
And when he perceived that the crab soup was made 
with butter, he put down his spoon beside his plate 
and said he could not eat crabs. Since he had 
learned that the crab was nought else but a bee- 


* From the celebrated Szézat (appeal) calling on the Hun- 
garian to be true to his fatherland. 
t Also from the “ Szézat.” 


100 Debts of Honor 


tle living in water, and since a company had been 
formed in Germany for making beetles into preserves 
for dessert, he had been unable to look with undis- 
mayed eye upon these retrograde monsters. 

“Ach, take it away, Boris,” sighed the host. He 
himself was not eating, for was he not atoning for his 
sins? 

Mistress Boris removed the dish with an expression 
of violent anger. 

Just imagine a housekeeper, whose every ambition is 
‘the kitchen, when her first dish is despatched away 
from the table without being touched. 

The second dish—eggs stuffed with sardines—suf- 
fered the same fate. 

The lawyer declared on his word of honor that they 
had buried his grandfather for tasting a dish of 
sardines, and that every female in the family imme- 
diately went into spasms from the smell of the same. 
He would rather eat a whale than a sardine. 

“Take this away, too, Mistress Boris. No one will 
touch it.”’ Mistress Boris began to mutter under her 
breath that it was absurd and affected to turn up one’s 
nose at these respectable eatables, which were quite as 
good as those they had caten in their grandfather’s 
house. Her last words were rather drowned by the 
creaking of the door as she went out. 

Then followed some kind of salad, with bread — 
crumbs. The lawyer had in his university days re- 
ceived such a dangerous fever from eating such stuff, 
that it would indeed be a fatal enterprise to tackle it 
now. 

This was too much for the housekeeper. She at- 
tacked Mr. Sarvolgyi: 

“Didn’t I tell you not to cook a fasting dinner? 
Didn’t I say so? You think everyone is as devout as 
you are in keeping Friday? Now you have it. Now 
I am disgraced.” 

“Tt is part of the punishment I have inflicted on 
myself,” answered Sarvélgyi, with humble acquies- 
cence. 


The Atheist and the Hypocrite ior 


“The devil take your punishment; it is me that will 
come in for ridicule if they hear about it yonder. You 
become more of a fool every day.” 

“Say what is on your tongue, my good Boris; 
heaven will order you to do penance as well as me.” 

Mistress Boris slammed the door after her, and cried 
outside in bitter disappointment. 

The lawyer swore to himself that he would eat what- 
ever followed, even if it were poison. 

It was worse: it was fish. 

We have medical certificates to enable us to assert 
that whenever the lawyer ate fish he promptly had to 
go to bed. He was forced to say that if they chased 
him from the house with boiling water he could not 
venture to put his teeth into it. 

Mistress Boris said nothing now. She actually kept 
silent. As we all know, the last stage but one of a 
woman’s anger is when she is silent, and cannot utter 
a word. There is one stage more, which was immi- 
nent. The lawyer thought the dinner was over, and 
with true sincerity begged Mistress Boris to prepare 
a little coffee for him and the magistrate. 

Boris left the room without a word, placing the cof- 
fee machine before Sarvélgyi himself; he did not al- 
low anyone else to make it, and occupied himself with 
the preparations till Mistress Boris came back. 

The magistrate was just dreaming that that fellow 
swinging from the ceiling turned to him, and said 

will you have a cup of coffee?’ It did him good start- 
ing from his doze, to see his host, not on the chandelier, 
but sitting in a chair before him, saying: “ Will you 
have a cup of coffee? ”’ 

The magistrate hastened to taste it, with a view to 
driving the sleepiness from his eyes, and the lawyer 
poured some out for himself. 

Just at that moment Mistress Boris entered with a 
dish of omelette. 

Mistress Boris with a face betraying the last stage of 
anger, approached the lawyer :—she smiled tenderly. 

Tt is not the pleasantest sight in the world when a 


102 Debts of Honor 


lady with a plate of omelette in her hand, smiles ten- 
derly upon a man who is well aware of the fact that 
only a hair’s breadth separates him from the catas- 
trophe of having the whole dish dashed on his head. 

“ Kindly help yourself.” 

The lawyer felt a cold shiver run down his back. 

“You will surely like this !—omelette.” 

“T see, my dear woman, that it is omelette,” whis- 
pered the lawyer; “but no one of my family could 
enjoy omelette after black coffee.” 

The catastrophe had not yet arrived. The lawyer 
had his eyes already shut, waiting for the inevitable; 
but the storm, to his astonishment, passed over his 
head. 

There was something else to attract the thunder- 
bolt. The magistrate had again taken his seat at the 
table, and was putting sugar in his coffee; he could 
not have any such excuse. 

“ Kindly help yourself .. .” 

The magistrate’s hair stood on end at her awful look. 
He saw that this relentless dragon of the apocalypse 
would devour him, if he did not stuff himself to death 
with the omelette. Yet it was utterly impossible. He 
could not have eaten a morsel even if confronting the 
stake or the gallows. 

“ Pardon, a thousand pardons, my dear woman,” he 
panted, drawing his chair farther away from the 
threatening horror: “ I feel so unwell that I cannot take 
dinner.” 

Then the storm broke. 

Mistress Boris put the dish down on the table, 
placed her two hands on her thighs, and exploded: 

“No, of course not,” she panted, her voice thick with 
rage. “Of course you can’t dine here, because you 
were simply crammed over yonder by—the gypsy 
girl.” 

The hot coffee stuck in the throats of the two guests 
at these words! In the lawyer’s from uncontrollable 
laughter, in the magistrate’s from still more uncon- 
trollable consternation. 


” 





The Atheist and the Hypocrite 10 3 


This woman had indeed wreaked a monstrous 
vengeance. 

The good magistrate felt likea boy thrashedat school, 
who fears that his folks at home may learn the whole 
truth. 

Luckily the sergeant of gendarmes entered with the 
news that the unholy pictures had been already erased 
from the walls, and the carriages were waiting. He 
too “ got it’ outside, for, as he made inquiries after his 
masters, Mistress Boris told him severely to go to the 
depths of hell: “he too smelt of wine; of course, that 
gypsy girl had given him also to drink!” 

That gypsy girl! 

The magistrate, in spite of his crestfallen dejection, 
felt an actual sense of pleasure at being rid of this 
cursed house and district. 

Only when they were well on their dusty way along 
the highroad did he address his companion: 

“Well, my dear old man, that fine lady was only a 
gypsy girl after all. 

“ Surely, my dear fellow.” 

“Then why did you not tell me?” 

“ Because you did not ask me.” 

“That is why you lay on your stomach and 
laughed, is it?” 

“ Naturally.” 

The magistrate heaved a deep sigh. 

“ At least, I implore you, don’t tell my wife that the 
gypsy girl kissed me!” 


CHAPTER V 
THE WILD CREATURE’S HAUNT 


In those days the Tisza regulations did not exist— 
that plain around Lankadomb where now turnips are 
hoed with four-bladed machines was at that time still 
covered by an impenetrable marsh, that came right up 
to Topandy’s garden, from which it was separated by 2 
broad ditch. This ditch wound in a meandering, nar- 
row course to the great waste of rushes, and in dry 
summer gave the appearance of a rivulet conveying 
the water of the marsh down to the Tisza. When the 
heavy rains came, naturally the stream flowed back 
along the same route. 

The whole marsh covered some ten or twelve square 
miles. Here after a heavy frost, they used to cut 
reeds, and on the occasion of great hunting matches * 
they would drive up masses of foxes and wolves; and 
all the huntsmen of the neighborhood might lie in 
wait in its expanse for fowl from morn till eve, and if 
they pleased, might roam at will in a canoe and destroy 
the swarms of winged inhabitants of the fen: no one 
would interrupt them. 

Some ancestor of Topandy had given the peasantry 
permission to cut peat in the bog, but the present 
proprietor had discontinued this industry, because it 
completely defiled the place: the ditches caused by the 
old diggings became swampy morasses, so that neither 
man nor beast could pass among them without danger. 


* A hunting match in which the vassals of the landlord form 
a ring of great extent and advancing and narrowing the circle 
by degrees, drive the animals together towards a place where 
they can be conveniently shot. (Walter Scott.) 


104 





The Wild Creature’s Haunt 105 


Anyone with good eyes could still descry from 
the castle tower that enormous hay-rick which they 
had filled up ten or twelve years before in the middle 
of the marsh; it was just in the height of summer and 
they had mown the hillocks in the marsh; then fol- 
lowed a mild winter, and neither man nor sleigh could 
reach it. The hay was lost, it was not worth the trouble 
of getting; so they had left it there, and it was already 
brown, its top moss-covered and overgrown with 
weeds. 

Topandy would often say to his hunting comrades, 
who, looking through a telescope, remarked the hay- 
rick in the marsh: 

“Someone must be living in that rick; often of an 
evening have I seen smoke coming from it. It might 
be an excellent place for a dwelling. Rain cannot 
penetrate it, in winter it keeps out the cold, in summer 
the heat. I would live in it myself.” 

They often tried to reach it while out hunting ;- but 
every attempt was a failure; the ground about the rick 
was so clogged with turfy peat that to approach it by 
boat was impossible, and one who trusted himself on 
foot came so near being engulfed that his companions 
could scarcely haul him out of the bog with a rope. 
Finally they acquiesced in the idea that here within 
distinct view of the castle, some wild creature, born 
of man, had made his dwelling among the wolves and 
other wild beasts; a creature whom it would be a pity 
to disturb, as he never interfered with anybody. 

The most enterprising hunter, therefore, even in 
broad daylight avoided the neighborhood of the sus- 
picious hay-rick; who then would be so audacious as 
to dare to seek it out by night when the circled moon 
foretelling rain, was flooding the marsh-land with a 
silvery, misty radiance, adding a new terror to the 
face of the landscape; when the exhalations of the 
marsh were sluggishly spreading a vaporous heaviness 
over the lowland; while the eerie habitants of the bog 
(whose time of sleep is by day, their active life at 
night) the millions of frogs and other creatures were 


106 Debts of Honor 


reéchoing their cries, announcing the whereabouts of 
the slimy pools, where foul gases are lord and master; 
when the he-wolf was howling to his comrades; and 
when, all at once, some mysterious-faced cloud drew 
out before the moon, and whispered to her something 
that made all nature tremble, so that for one moment 
all was silent, a death-like silence, more terrible than 
all the night voices speaking at once ;—at such a time 
whose steps were those that sounded in the depths of 
the morass? 

A horseman was making his way by the moonlight, 
in solitude. 

His steed struggled along up to the hocks in the 
swamp which showed no paths at all; the tracks were 
immediately sucked up by the mud:—nothing lay be- 
fore to show the way, save the broken reed. No sign 
remained that anyone had ever passed there before. 

The sagacious mare carefully noted the marks from 
time to time, instinctively scenting the route, that tracks 
trodden by wild beasts should not lead her astray; 
cleverly she picked out with her sharp eyes the places 
where the ground was still firm; at times she would 
leap from one clod of peat to another. The space be- 
tween these spots might be overgrown by green grass, 
with yellow flowers dotted here and there, but the 
sagacious animal knew, felt, perhaps had even ex- 
perienced, that the depth there was deceptive; it was 
one of those peat-diggings, filled in by mud and over- 
grown by the green of water-moss; he who stepped 
thereon would be swallowed up in an instant. Then 
she trotted on picking her way among the dangerous 
places. 

And the rider? 

He was asleep. 

Asleep on horseback, while his steed was going with 
him through an accursed spot: where to right and left 
were graves, where below was hell and around him the 
gloom of night. The horseman was sleeping, his head 
nodding backwards and forwards, swaying to and fro. 
Sometimes he started, as those who travel in carriages 





The Wild Creature’s Haunt 107 


are wont to do when the jolting is more pronounced 
than ordinary, and then settled down again. Though 
asleep he kept his seat as if he had grown to the saddle. 
His hands seemed wide awake for all he held the reins 
in one and a double-barrelled gun in the other. 

By the light of the moon his dark face seemed even 
darker ; his long, crisp, curly hair, his hat pressed down 
over his eyes, his black beard and moustache, his 
strongly aquiline nose, all proclaimed his gypsy origin. 
He wore a threadbare blue doublet, braided with cords, 
which were buttoned here and there at random, and 
over this was fastened some tattered lambskin covering. 

The rider was really fast asleep: surely he must have 
travelled at such a pace that he had no time, or thought 
for sleep, and now, strangely enough, he felt at home. 

Here, where no one could pursue him, he bowed his 
head upon his horse’s neck. 

And the horse seemed to know that his master was 
sleeping, for he did not shake himself once, even to rid 
himself of the crowds of biting, sucking insects that 
preyed upon his skin, knowing that such a motion 
would wake his master. 

As the mare broke through a clump of marsh-wil- 
lows, in the darkness of the willow forest, little dancing 
fire-flies came before her in scores, leaping from grass 
to grass, from tree to tree, dissolving one into the 
other, then leaping apart and dancing alone; their 
flames assumed a pale, lustreless brilliance in the dark- 
ness, like some fire of mystery or the burning gases of 
some moldering corpses. 

The mare merely snorted at the sight of these flick- 
ering midnight flames; surely she had often met 
them, in journeys across the marsh, and already knew 
their caprices: how they lurked about the living ani- 
mals, how they ran after her if she passed before them, 
how they fluttered around, how they danced beside her 
continuously, how they leaped across above her head, 
how they strove to lead her astray from the right path. 

There they were darting around the heads of horse 
and horseman as if they were burning night-moths; 


108 Debts of Honor 


one lighted upon the horseman’s hat, and swayed with 
it, as he nodded his head. 

The steed snorted and breathed hard upon those liv- 
ing lights. but the snorting awakened the rider. He 
gazed askance at his brilliant demon-companions, one 
of which was on the brim of his hat; he dug the spurs 
into the mare’s flanks, to make her leap more speedily 
from among the jeering spirits of the night. 

When they came to a turn in the track, the crowd of 
graveyard mystery-lights parted in twain: most of 
them joined the rushing air-current, while some careful 
guardians remained constantly about the rider, now be- 
fore, now behind him. 

Darting from the willows, a cold breeze swept over 
the plain: before it every mystery-light fled back into 
the darkness, and still kept up its ghostly dance. Who 
knows what kind of amusement that was to them? 

The horseman was sleeping again. The terrible hay- 
rick was now so near that one might have gone straight 
to it, but the steed knew better; instead, she went 
around the spot in a half-circle, until she reached a lit- 
tle lake that cut off the hay-rick. Here she halted on 
the water’s edge and began to toss her head, with a 
view to quietly awakening the rider from his sleep. 

The latter looked up, dismounted, took saddle and 
bridle off his horse, and patted her on the back. There- 
with the steed leaped into the water, which reached to 
her neck, and swam to the other side. 

Why did she not cross over dry ground? Why did 
she go only through the water? The horseman mean- 
while squatted down among the broom, rested his gun 
upon his knee, made sure that it was cocked and that 
the powder had not fallen from the pan, and noiselessly 
crouched down, gazing after the retreating steed, as 
she reached the opposite bank. Suddenly she drew 
in her tail, bristled her mane, pricked up her ears. 
Her eyes flashed fire, her nostrils expanded. Slowly 
and cautiously she stepped forward, so as to make no 
noise, bowed her head to the earth, like some scenting 
hound, and stopped to listen. 


The Wild Creature’s Haunt 10g 


On the southern side of the hay-rick,—the side 
away from the village,—there was a narrow entrance 
cut into the pile of hay: a plaited door of willow-twigs 
covered it, and the twigs were plaited together in their 
turn with sedges to make the color harmonize with 
that of the rick. This was done so perfectly that no one 
looking at it, even from a short distance, would have 
suspected anything. As the steed reached the vicinity 
of the door, she cautiously gazed upon it: below the 
willow-door there was an opening, through which 
something had broken in. 

The mare knew already what it was. She scented 
it. A she-wolf had taken up her abode there in the 
absence of the usual occupants, she had young ones 
with her, and was just now giving suck; other- 
wise she would have noticed the horse’s approach; 
the whining of the whelps could be heard from the 
outside. The mare seized the door with her teeth, and 
suddenly wrenched it from its place. 

From the hollow of the hay-rick a lean, hungry 
wolf crept out. At first in wonder she raised her eyes, 
which shone in the green light, astonished at this dis- 
turbance of her repose; and she seemed to take coun- 
sel within herself, whether this was the continuation 
of her sweet dreams. The providential joint had come 
very opportunely to the mother of seven whelps. Two 
or three of these were still clinging to her hanging ud- 
ders, and left her only that she might prepare herself 
for the fight. The old animal merely yawned loudly, — 
in a man it would be called a laugh,—a yawn that de- 
clared her delight in robbery, and with her slatternly 
tail beat her lean, hollow sides. The mare, seeing 
that her foe was in no hurry for the combat, came 
nearer, bowed her head to the earth, and in this man- 
ner stepped slowly forward, sniffing at the enemy; 
when the wolf seemed in the act of springing on her 
neck she suddenly turned, and dealt a savage kick at 
the wolf’s chin that broke one of its great front teeth. 
Then the furious wild creature, snarling and_hiss- 
ing, darted upon the steed, which at the second attack 


110 Debts of Honor 


kicked so viciously with both hind legs that the wolf 
turned a complete scmersault in the air; but this only 
served to make it more furious: gnashing its teeth, its 
mouth foaming and bloody, it sprang a third time upon 
the mare, only to receive from the sharp hoof a long 
wound in its breast; but that was not all: before it 
could rise from the ground, the mare dealt another 
blow that crushed one of its fore paws. 

The wolf then gave up the battle. Terrified, with 
broken teeth and feet, it hobbled off from the scene 
of the encounter, and scon appeared on the roof of the 
rick. The coward had sought a place of refuge from 
the victorious foe, whither that foe could not follow it. 

The steed galloped round the rick: she wished to 
deceive her enemy, who merely sat on the roof licking 
its broken leg, its bruised side, and bloody jaws. 

All at once the proud mare halted, with a haughtier 
look than man is capable of, as who might say: “ You 
are not coming?” 

Suddenly she seized one of the whelps in her 
teeth. They had slunk out of the holiow, whining 
after their mother. She shook it cruelly in the air, then 
dashed it to the ground violently so that in a moment 
its cries ceased. 

The mother-wolf hissed with agonized fury on the 
roof of the rick. 

The mare seized another one of the whelps and shook 
it in the air. 

As she grasped the third by the neck, the mother, mad 
with rage, leaped down upon her from the pile and, 
with the energy of despair, made so fierce an assault 
that her claws reached the steed’s neck; but her 
crushed leg could take no hold, and she fell in a heap 
at the mare’s feet; the triumphant foe then trampled to 
death first the old mother, then all the whelps. At 
last, proudly whinnying, she galloped in frisky triumph 
around the rick, and then quickly swam back to the 
place where she had left her master. 

“Well, Farao, is there anything the matter?” said 
the horseman, embracing his horse’s head. 





The Wild Creature’s Haunt III 


The horse replied to the question with a familiar 
neigh, and rubbed her nose against her master’s hip. 

The horseman thereupon tied saddle and bridle to- 
gether into one bundle, and leaped upon his steed’s back, 
who then, without harness of any kind, readily swam 
with him to the place she had already visited, and halted 
before the opening in the rick. The master dismounted. 
The steed, thus freed, rolled on the grass, neighing and 
whinnying, then leaped up, shook herself, and with 
great delight grazed in the rich swampy pasture. 

The gypsy was not surprised to see the bloody signs 
of the late struggle. He had many a time discovered 
dead wolves in the track of his grazing horse. 

“This will serve splendidly for a skin-cloak, as the 
old one is torn.” 

Then something occurred to him. 

“This was a female: so the male must be here some- 
where—I know where. The rick was surrounded by 
wolf-ditches in double rows, so made that the inner 
ditch corresponded to the space left between the two 
outer ones: the whole crafty work of defence was 
covered over with thin brush and reeds, which had 
been overgrown by process of time by moss, so that 
even a man might have been deceived by their appear- 
ance. Here was the reason why the steed had not 
approached the rick in a straight line. This was a for- 
tified place, and the only entrance to the stronghold 
was that lake which lay before it: that was the gate. 
The she-wolf, too, had undoubtedly come across the 
water, but the male had not been so prudent and had 
entrapped himself in one of the ditches. 

The gypsy at once noticed that one ditch had been 
broken in, and, as he gazed down into the depths, two 
blazing blood-red eyes told him that what he was look- 
ing for was there. 

*“ Well, you are in a fine position, old fellow: in the 
morning J shall come for you: and I'll ask for your 
skin, if you'll give it to me. If you give, you give; if 
you don’t give, I take. That is the order of things in 
the world. I have none, you have: I want it, you don’t. 


112 Debts of Honor 


One of us must die for the other’s sake: that one must 
be you.” 

Then it occurred to him to remove the skin of the 
she-wolf at once, for, if he left it to cool, the work 
would be more difficult. He stretched the fur on poles 
and left it to dry in the moonlight; the carcass he 
dragged to the end of the rick and buried it there; then 
he made a fire of rushes, took his seven days’ old bread 
and rancid bacon from his greasy wallet and ate. As 
the darting flames threw a flickering light upon his 
face, he looked no more peaceful than that wild crea- 
ture, whose hollow he had usurped. 

It was just a sagacious, courageous, wily, resolute— 
animal face. 

“Either you eat me, or I eat you.” That was its 
meaning. ‘‘ You have, I have not; I want, you don’t: 
—if you give, you give; if you don’t, I take.” 

_At every bite with his brilliant white teeth into the 
bread and bacon, you could see it in his face; his gnash- 
ing teeth, and ravenous eyes declared it. 

That bacon, and bread, had surely cost something, 
if not money. 

Money? How could the gypsy purchase for money? 
Why, when he took that bright dollar from his knap- 
sack, people would ask him where he got it. Should 
he show one of those red-eyed bank-notes, they would 
at once arrest, imprison him: whom had he murdered 
to obtain them? 

Yet he has dollars and bank-notes in plenty. He 
gathers them from his leathern purse with his hands, 
and scatters them around him on the grass. 

Bright silver and gold coins glitter around him in 
the firelight. He gazes at the curious notes of the 
imperial banks, and fears within himself that he can- 
not make out the worth of any of them. Then he sweeps 
them all together in one heap, along with snail shells 
and rush-seeds. After a while the man enters the hol- 
low interior of the rick, and draws from the hay a 
large, sooty copper vessel, partly moldy with the mold 
of money. He pours the new pile in with two full 


The Wild Creature’s Haunt 113 


hands. Then he raises the cauldron to see how much 
heavier it has become. 

Is he satisfied with his work? 

He buries his treasure once more in the depths of 
the rick; he himself knows not how much there might 
be. Then he attacks anew the hard, stale bread, the 
rancid bacon, and devours it to the last morsel. Per- 
haps some ready-prepared banquet awaited him on the 
morrow. Or perhaps he is accustomed to feasting only 
every third day. At last he stretches himself out on 
the grass, and calls to Farao. 

“Come here, graze about my head, let me hear you 
crunch the grass.” 

And quickly he fell asleep beside her, as it were one 
whose brain was of the quietest and his conscience the 
most peaceful. 


CHAPTER VI 
“FRUITS PREMATURELY RIPE” 


Art first I was invited to my P. C. uncle’s every Sun- 
day to dinner: later | went without invitation. As soon 
as I was let out of school, I hastened thither. I per- 
suaded myself that I went to visit my brother. I found 
an excuse, too, in the idea that I must make progress in 
art, and that it was in any case an excellent use of time, 
and a very good “entrée” to art, if I played waltzes 
and quadrilles of an afternoon from five to eight on the 
violin to Melanie’s accompaniment on the piano, while 
the rest of the company danced to our music. 

For the Balnokhazys had company every day. Such 
a change of faces that I could scarcely remember who 
and what they all were. Gay young men and ladies 
they were, who loved to enjoy themselves: every day 
there was a dance there. 

Sometimes others would change places with Melanie 
at the piano: a piece of good fortune for me, for she 
was able to then have a dance—with me. 

I have never seen any one dance more beautifully 
than she; she fluttered above the floor, and could 
make the waltz more agreeable than any one else be- 
fore or after her. That was my favorite dance. I was 
exclusively by her side at such times, and we could not 
gaze except into each other’s eyes. I did not like the 
quadrille so well: in that one is always taking the hands 
of different persons, and changing partners; and what 
interest had I in those other lady-dancers ? 

And I thought Melanie, too, rejoiced at the same 
thing that pleased me. 

And, if by chance—a very rare event—the P. C. had 
no company, we still had our dance. There were al- 


I1I4 





Fruits Prematurely Ripe 115 


ways two gentlemen and two lady dancers in the house 
party; the beautiful wife of the P. C. and Fraiilein 
Matild, the governess: Lorand and Pepi* Gyali. 

Pepi was the son of a court agent at Vienna, and his 
father was a very good friend of Balnokhazy; his 
mother had once been ballet-dancer at the Vienna opera 
—a fact I only learned later. 

Pepi was a handsome young fellow “ en miniature; ” 
he was a member of the same class as Lorand, a law 
student in the first year, yet he was no taller than I. 
Every feature of his face was fine and tender, his 
mouth, small, like that of a girl, yet never in all my life 
have I met one capable of such backbiting as was he 
with his pretty mouth. 

How I envied that little mortal his gift for conversa- 
tion, his profound knowledge, his easy gestures, his 
freedom of manners, that familiarity with which he 
could treat women! His beauty was plastic! 

I felt within myself that such ought a man to be in 
life, if he would be happy. 

The only thing I did not like in him was that he was 
always paying compliments to Melanie: he might have 
desisted from that. He surely must have remarked 
on what terms I was with her. 

His custom was, in the quadrille, when the solo- 
dancing gentlemen returned to their lady partners, to 
anticipate me and dance the turn with Melanie. He 
considered it a very good joke, and I scowled at him 
several times. But once, when he wished to do the 
same, I seized his arm, and pushed him away; I was 
only a grammar-school boy, and he was a first-year law 
student; still I did push him away. 

With this heroic deed of mine not only myself but 
my cousin Melanie also was contented. That evening 
we danced right up till nine o’clock. I always with 
Melanie, and Lorand with her mother. 

When the company dispersed, we went down to Lo- 


* A nickname for Joseph. 


116 Debts of Honor 


rand’s room on the ground floor, Pepi accompanying 
us. 

I thought he was going to pick a quarrel with me, 
and vowed inwardly I would thrash him. 

But instead he merely laughed at me. 

“Only imagine,” he said, throwing himself on Lo- 
rand’s bed, “‘ this boy is jealous of me.” 

My brother laughed too. 

It was truly ridiculous: one boy jealous of another. 

Yes, I was surely jealous, but chivalrous too. I 
think I had read in some novel that it was the custom 
to reply in some such manner to like ridicule: 

“ Sir, I forbid you to take that lady’s name in vain.” 

They laughed all the more. 

“Why, he is a delightful fellow, this Desi,” said 
Pepi. “ See, Lorand, he will cause you a deal of trou- 
ble. If he learns to smoke, he will be quite an Othello.” 

This insinuation hit me on a sensitive spot. I had 
never yet tasted that ambrosia, which was to make me a 
full-grown man; for as every one knows, it is the pipe- 
stem which is the dividing line between boyhood and 
manhood; he who could take that in his mouth was a 
man. I had already often been teased about that. 

I must vindicate myself. 

On my brother’s table stood the tobacco-box full of 
Turkish tobacco, so by way of reply I went and filled 
a church warden, lit and began to smoke it. 

“Now, my child, that will be too strong,” sneered 
Pepi, “take it away from him, Lorand. Look how 
pale he is getting: remove it from him at once.” 

But I continued smoking: the smoke burned and 
bit the skin of my tongue; still I held the stem between 
my teeth, until the tobacco was burned out. 

That was my first and last pipe. 

“ At any rate, drink a glass of water,” Lorand said. 

“ No thank you.” 

“ Well, go home, for it will soon be dark.” 

“Tam not afraid in the streets.” 

Yet I felt like one who is a little tipsy. 

“Have you any appetite?” inquired Pepi scornfully. 





Fruits Prematurely Ripe BY 4 


“ Just enough to eat a gingerbread-hussar like you.” 

Lorand laughed uncontrollably at this remark of 
mine. 

“ Gingerbread-hussar! you have got it from him, 
Pepi.” 

I was quite flushed with pride at being able to make 
Lorand laugh. 

But Pepi, on the contrary, became quite serious. 

“Ho, ho, old fellow,” (when he spoke seriously to 
me he always addressed me “ old fellow,” and on other 
occasions as “my child”). “ Never be afraid of me; 
now Lorand might have reason to be: we both want 
‘ what is ready; we do not court your little girl, but her 
mother. If the old wigged councillor is not jealous 
of us, don’t you be so.” 

I expected Lorand to smite that fair mouth for this 
despicable calumny. 

Instead of which he merely said, half muttering : 

“Don’t; before the child . . 

Pepi did not allow himself to be called to order. 

“It is true, my dear Desi: and I can tell you that you 
will have a far more grateful part to play around Mela- 
nie, if she marries someone else.” 

Then indeed I went home. This cynicism was 
something quite new to my mind. Not only my 
stomach, but my whole soul turned sick. How could 
I measure the bitterness of the idea that Lorand 
was paying court to a married woman? Such a 
thing was not to be seen in the circle in which we 
had been brought up. Such a case had been men- 
tioned in our town, perhaps, as the scandal of the cen- 
tury, but only in whispers that the innocent might not 
hear: neither the man nor the woman could have 
shown their faces in our street. Surely no one would 
have spoken another word to them. 

And Lorand had been so confused when Pepi ut- 
tered this foul thing to his face before me. He did 
not deny it, nor was he angry. 

I arrived at home in an agony of shame. The street- 
door was already closed: so I had to pass in by the shop 


118 Debts of Honor 


door. I wished to cpen it softly that the bell should 
not betray my coming, but Father Fromm was waiting 
forme. He was extremely angry: he stopped my way. 

“ Discipulus negligens! Do you know ‘ quote hora?’ 
Decem. Every day to wander out of doors till after 
nine, hoc non pergit.—Scio, scio, what you wish to say. 
You were at the P. C.’s. That is ‘unum et idem’ for 
me. The other ‘asinus’ has been learning his lessons 
ever since midday, so much has he to do, while you 
have not even so much as glanced at them; do you wish 
to be a greater “asinus’ than he? Now I say ‘ semei 
propter semper,’ ‘ finis’ to the carnival! Don’t go any 
more a-dancing ; for if you stay out once more, ‘ ego tibi 
umsicabo.”’ Now ‘ pergus, dixi.’” 

Old Marton during this well-deserved drubbing kept 
moving the scalp of his head back and forth in assent, 
and then came after me with a candle, to light me along 
the corridor to the door of my room, singing behind me 
these jesting verses: 


“ Hab i ti nid gsagt 
Komm um halbe Acht? 
Und du Kummst mir jetzt um halbe naini 
Jetzt ist de Vater z’haus, kannst nimmer aini.”* 


And after me he called out “ Prosit, Sir Lieutenant- 
Governor.” I had no desire to be angry with him. I 
felt too sad to quarrel with any one. 

Henrik was indeed slaving away at the table, and 
the candle, burnt to the end, proved that he had been 
at it a long time. 

“Welcome, Desi,” he said good humoredly. ‘“ You 
come late; a terrible amount of ‘ labor’ awaits you to- 
morrow. I have finished mine: you will be behind with 
yours, so I have written the exercises in your place. 
Look and see if it is good.” 

I was humbled. 


*“ Did I not tell thee, ‘come at half-past seven?’ and thou 
comest now at half-past eight? Now the father is at home, 
thou canst no more come in.” 








Fruits Prematurely Ripe 119 


That heavy-headed boy, on whom I had been wont 
to look down from such a height, whose work I had 
prepared in play, work which he would have broken his 
head over, had now in my place finished the work I had 
neglected. What had become of me? 

“T waited for you with a little pleasant surprise,” 
said Henrik, taking from his drawer something which 
he held in his hand before me. “ Now guess what it 
1s.’ 

“T don’t care what it is.” 
I was in a bad humor, I longed to lay my head on 
the bed. 

“Of course you care. Fanny has written a letter 
from her new home. She has written to you in Mag- 
yar, about your dear mother.” 

These words roused me from my lethargy. 

“ Show me: give it me to read.” 

“You see, you are delighted after all.” 

I tore the letter from him. 

First Fanny wrote to her parents in German, on the 
last page in Magyar to me. She had already made 
such progress. 

She wrote that they often spoke of me at home; I 
was a bad boy not to write mother a letter: she was 
very ill and it was her sole delight to be able to speak 
of me. As often as her parents or brother wrote to 
Fanny, she would add a few lines after opening the 
letter, in my name, then take it to my mother and read 
it to her, as if I had written. How delighted she was! 
She did not know my German writing, so she readily 
believed it was I who had written. But I must be a 
good boy and write myself, for some day mother and 
grandmother would discover the deceit and would be 
angry. 

My heart was almost bursting. 

I pored over the letter I had read, and sobbed bitterly 
as I had never before done in my life. 

My dear only mother! thou saint, thou martyr! who 
sufferest, weepest, and anguishest so much for my 


120 Debts of Honor 


sake, while I mix in a society where they mock women, 
and mothers! Canst thou forgive me? 

When I had cried myself out, my face was covered 
with tears. Henrik raised me from my seat upon the 
floor. 

“Give me this letter,” I panted; and I kissed him 
for giving it to me. 

Many great historical documents have been torn up 
since then, but that letter is still in my possession. 

“ Now I cannot go to bed. I will stay up until morn- 
ing and finish the work I have neglected. I thank you 
for what you have written in my stead, but I cannot ac- 
cept it. I shall do it myself. I shall do everything in 
which [I am behindhand.” 

“Good, Desi, my boy, but you see our candle has 
burned down; and grandmother is already asleep, so I 
cannot ask her for one. Still, if you do wish to sit up, 
go down to the bakehouse, they are working all night, 
as to-morrow is Saturday: take your ink, paper, and 
books with you. There you can write and learn your 
lessons.” 

I did so. I descended to the court, washed my head 
beside the fountain, then took my books and writing 
material and descended to the bakehouse, begging Mar- 
ton to allow me to work there by lamp-light. Marton 
irritated me the whole night with his satire, the assist- 
ants jostled me, and drove me from my place; they 
sang the ‘“ Kneading-trough” air, and many other 
street-songs: and amid all these abominations I studied 
till morning; what is more, I finished all my work. 

That night, I know, was one of the turning-points 
in my life. 

Two days later came Sunday: I met Pepi in the 
street. 

“Well, old fellow: are you not coming to-day to see 
little Melanie? There will be a great dance-rehearsal.” 

“T cannot: I have too much to do.” 

Pepi laughed loudly. “ Very well, old fellow.” 

His laughter did not affect me in the least. 


a 
vd 


% 


Fruits Prematurely Ripe I2I 


“ But when you have learned all there is to learn will 
you come again?” 

“No. For then I shall write a letter to my mother.” 

Some good spirit must have whispered to this fellow 
not to laugh at these words, for he could not have an- 
ticipated the box on the ears I would have given him, 
because he could not for an instant forget that I was 
a grammar-school boy, and he a first-year law student. 


CHAPTER VII 
THE SECRET WRITINGS 


One evening Lorand came to me and laid before me 
a bundle of papers covered with fine writing. 

“Copy this quite clearly by to-morrow morning. 
Don’t show the original to any one, and, when you 
have finished, lock it up in your trunk with the copy, 
until I come for it.” 

I set to work in a moment and never rose from my 
task until I had completed it. 

Next morning Lorand came for it, read it through, 
and said: “ Very good,” handing me two pieces of 
twenty. 

“What do you mean?” 

“ Take it,” he said, “It is not my gift, but the gift 
of someone else: in fact, it is not a gift, but a fixed con- 
tract-price. Honorable work deserves honorable pay- 
ment. For every installment* you copy, you get two 
pieces of twenty. It is not only you that are doing it: 
many of your school-fellows are occupied in the same 
work.” 

Then I was pleased with the two pieces of twenty. 

My uneasiness at receiving money from anybody ex- 
cept my parents, who alone were entitled to make me 
presents, was only equalled by my pleasure at the pos- 
session of my first earnings, the knowledge that I was 
at last capable of earning something, that at last the 
tree of life was bearing fruit, which I might reach and 
pluck for myself. 

I accepted the work and its reward. Every second 
day, punctually at seven o’clock in the evening, Lorand 


* 2. e., A printed sheet of sixteen pages. 
122 


The Secret Writings 123 


would come to me, give me the matter to be copied, 
‘matter written, as | recognized, in his own hand writ- 
ing,’ and next day in the morning would come for the 
manuscript. 

I wrote by night, when Henrik was already asleep: 
but, had he been awake, he could not have known 
what I was writing, for it was in Magyar. 

And what was in these secret writings? 

The journal of the House of Parliament. It was 
the year 1836. Speeches held in Parliament could not 
be read in print; the provisional censor ruled the 
day, and a few scarecrow national papers fed their 
reading public on stories of the Zummalacarregu type. 

So the public helped itself. 

In those days shorthand was unknown in our coun- 
try; four or five quick-fingered young men occupied 
a bench in the gallery of the House, and “ skeleton- 
ized” the speeches they heard. At the end of a sit- 
ting they pieced their fragments together: in one would 
be found what was missing in the other: thus they 
made the speeches complete. They wrote the result out 
themselves four times, and then each one provided for 
the copying forty times, of his own copy. The journals 
of Parliament, thus written, were preserved by the pa- 
triots, who were members at that time,—and are proba- 
bly still in preservation. 

The man of to-day, who sighs after the happy days 
of old, will not understand how dangerous an enter- 
prise, was the attempt made by certain young men “ in 
the glorious age of noble freedom,” to make the pub- 
lic familiar, through their handwriting, with the 
speeches delivered in Parliament. 

These writings had a regenerating influence upon 
me. 

An entirely new world opened out before me: new 
ideas, new impulses arose within my mind and heart. 
The name of that world which opened out before me 
was “home.” It was marvellous to listen for the first 
time to the full meaning of “home.” Till then I had 
had no idea of “ home: ” now every day I passed my. 


~ 


124 Debts of Honor 


nights with it:—the lines, which I wrote down night 
after night, were imprinted upon those white pages, 
that are left vacant in the mind of a child. Nor was 
I the only one impressed. 

There is still deeply engraved on my memory that 
kindling influence, by which the spirit of the youth 
of that age was transformed through the writing of 
those pages. 

One month later I had no more dreams of becoming 
Privy-Councillor:—then I knew not how I could ever 
approach my cousin Melanie. 

All at once the school authorities discovered where 
the parliamentary speeches were reproduced. It was 
done by the school children, that hundred-handed type- 
setting machine. 

The danger had already spread far; finding no ordi- 
nary outlet, it had found its way through twelve-year- 
old children: hands of children supplied the deficiency 
of the press. 

Great was the apprehension. 

The writing of some (among them mine) was rec- 
ognized. We were accused before the school tribu- 
nal. 

I was in that frame of mind that I could not fear. 
The elder boys they tried to frighten with greater 
things, and yet they did not give way: I would at least 
do no worse. I was able to grasp it all with my child’s 
mind, the fact that we, who had merely copied for 
money, could not be severely punished. Probably we 
never understood what might be in those writings lying 
before us. We merely piled up letter after letter. But 
the gravest danger threatened those who had brought 
those original writings before us. 

Twenty-two of the students of the college were 
called up for trial. 

On that day armed soldiers guarded the streets that 
led to the council-chamber, because the rumor ran 


that the young members of parliament wished to free 
the culprits. 


The Secret Writings 125 


On the day in question there were no lessons—merely 
the accused and their judges were present in the school 
building. 

It is curious that I did not fear, even when under 
the surveillance of the pedellus,* 1 had to wait in the 
ante-room of the school tribunal. And I knew well 
what was threatening. They would exclude either me 
or Lorand from the school. 

That idea was terrible for me. 

I had heard thrilling stories of expelled students. 
How, at such times, they rang that cracked bell, which 
was used only to proclaim, to the whole town, that an 
expelled student was being escorted by his fellows 
out of the town, with songs of penitence. How 
the poor student became thenceforth a wanderer his 
whole lifetime through, whom no school would receive, 
who dared not return to his father’s house. Now I 
merely shrugged my shoulders when I thought of it. 

At other times the least rebuke would break my 
spirit, and drive me to despair; now—I was resolved 
not even to ask for pardon. As I waited in the ante- 
room, I met the professors, one after another, as they 
passed through into the council-chamber. Fittingly I 
greeted them. Some of them did not so much as look 
at me. As Mr. Schmuck passed by he saw me, came 
forward, and very tenderly addressed me :— 

“Well, my child, and you have come here too. Don’t 
be afraid: only look at me always. I shall do all I can 
for you, as I promised to your dear, good grandmother. 
Oh how your devoted grandmother would weep if she 
knew in what a position you now stand. Well, well, 
» don’t cry: don’t be afraid. I intend to treat you as if 
you were my own child: only look at me always.” 

I was glad when he went away. I was angry that 
he wished to soften me. I must be strong to-day. 

The director also noticed me, and called out in harsh 
tones: 


* Warden of the school. 


126 Debts of Honor 


“ Well, famous fiddler: now you can show us what 
kind of a gypsy* you are.” 

That pleased me better. 

I would be no gypsy! 

The examination began: my school-fellows, the 
greater part of whom were unknown to me, as they 
were students of a higher class, were called in one by 
one into the tribunal chamber, and one by one they were 
dismissed; then the pedellus led them into another 
room, that they might not tell those without what they 
had been asked, and what they had answered. 

I had time enough to scrutinize their faces as they 
came out. 

Each one was unusually flushed, and brought with 
him the impression of what had passed within. 

One looked obstinate, another dejected. Some 
smiled bitterly: others could not raise their eyes to 
look at their fellows. Each one was suffering from 
some nervous perturbation which made his face a glar- 
ing contrast to the gaping, frozen features without. 

I was greatly relieved at not seeing Lorand among 
the accused. They did not know one of the chief lead- 
ers of the secret-writing conspiracy. 

But when they left me to the last, I was convinced 
they were on the right track; the copyers one after an- 
other had confessed from whom they had received the 
matter for copying. I was the last link in the chain, 
and behind me stood Lorand. 

But the chain would snap in two, and after me they 
would not find Lorand. 

For that one thing I was prepared. 

At last, after long waiting, my turn came. I was as 
stupefied, as benumbed, as if I had already passed 
through the ordeal. 

No thought of mother or grandmother entered my 


* The czigany (gypsy) is celebrated for his sneaking cow- 
ardice, and his fiddle playing, he being a naturally gifted musi- 
saree as any one who has heard czigany music in Budapest can 
testily. 





The Secret Writings 127 


head: merely the one idea that I must protect Lorand 
with body and soul: and then I felt as if that thought 
had turned me to stone: let them beat themselves 
against that stone. 

“ Desiderius Aronffy,” said the director, “tell us 
whose writing is this?” 

“Mine,” I answered calmly. 

“Tt is well that you have confessed at once: there is 
no necessity to compare your writing, to equivocate, 
as was the case with the others—What did you write 
for r* 

“ For money.” 

One professor-judge laughed outright, a second an- 
grily struck his fist upon the table, a third played with 
his pen. Mr. Schmuck sat in his chair with a sweet 
smile, and putting his hands together twirled his 
thumbs. 

“JT think you did not understand the question, my 
son,” said the director in a harsh dry voice. “It is 
not that I wished. to know for how much you wrote 
that trash: but with what object.” 

“ T understood well, and answered accordingly. They 
gave me writings to copy, they paid me for them: I 
accepted the payment because it was honorable earn- 
ings.” 

“You did not know they were secret writings? ” 

“T could not know it was forbidden to write what 
it was permitted to say for the hearing of the whole 
public, in the presence of the representative of the King 
and the Prince Palatine.” 

At this answer of mine one of the younger profes- 
sors uttered a sound that greatly resembled a choked 
laugh. The director looked sternly at him, rebuked 
with his eyes the sympathetic demonstration, and then 
bawled angrily at me :— 

“Don’t play the fool!” 

The only result of this was that I gazed still more 
closely at him, and was already resolved not to move 
aside, even if he drove a coach and four at me. I had 
trembled before him when he had rebuked me for my 


128 Debts of Honor 


violin-playing ; but now, when real danger threatened 
me, I did not wince at his gaze. 

“Answer me, who gave into your hands that writ- 
ing, which you copied?” 

I clenched my teeth. JI would not answer. He 
might cut me in two without finding within me what he 
sought. 

“ Well, won’t you answer my question?” 

Indeed, what would have been easier than to relate 
how some gentleman, whom I did not know, came to 

e; he had a beard that reached to his knees, wore 
spectacles, and a green overcoat: they must then try to 
find the man, if they could :—but then—I could not any 
longer have gazed into the questioning eyes. 

No! I would not lie: nor would I play the traitor. 

“ Will you answer?” the director cried at me for 
the third time. 

“T cannot answer.” 

“ Ho ho, that is a fine statement. Perhaps you don’t 
know the man? ” 

“T know, but will not betray him.” 

I thought that, at this answer of mine, the director 
would surely take up his inkstand and hurl it at my 
head. 

But he did not: he took a pinch of snuff from his 
snuff-box, and looked askance at his neighbor, 
Schmuck, as much as to say, “ It is what I expected 
from him.” 

Thereupon Mr. Schmuck ceased to twirl his thumbs 
and turning to me with a tender face he addressed me 
with soothing tones :— 

“My dear Desider, don’t be alarmed without cause: 
don’t imagine that some severe punishment awaits you 
or him from whom you received the writing. It was 
an error, surely, but not a crime, and will only become 
a crime in case you obstinately hold back some of 
the truth. Believe me, I shall take care that no harm 
befall you; but in that case it is necessary you should 
answer our questions openly.” 

These words of assurance began to move me from 


The Secret Writings 129 


my purpose. They were said so sweetly, I began to be- 
lieve in them. 

But the director suddenly interrupted :— 

“On the contrary! I am forced to contradict the 
honored professor, and to deny what he has brought 
forward for the defence of these criminal ycung men. 
Grievous and of great moment is the offence they have 
committed, and the chief causers thereof shall be pun- 
ished with the utmost rigor of the law.” 

These words were uttered in a voice of anger and 
of implacable severity; but all at once it dawned upon 
mie, that this severe man was he who wished to save 
us, while that assuring, tender paterfamilias was just 
the one who desired to ruin us. 

Mr. Schmuck continued to twirl his thumbs. 

The director then turned again to me. 

“Why will you not name the man who entrusted 
you with that matter for copying?” 

I gave the only answer possible. “ When I copied 
these writings I could not know I was engaged on 
forbidden work. Now it has been told me that it was 
a grievous offence, though I cannot tell why. Still I 
must believe it. I have no intention of naming the 
man who entrusted that work to me, because the pun- 
ishment of me who did not know its object, will be far 
lighter than that of him, who knew.” 

“But only think, my dear child, what a risk you 
take upon your own shoulders,” said Mr. Schmuck in 
gracious tones; “think, by your obduracy you make 
yourself the guilty accomplice in a crime, of which 
you were before innocent.” 

“Sir,” I answered, turning towards him: “ did you 
not teach me the heroic story of Mucius Scevola? 
did you not yourself teach me to recite ‘ Romanus sum 
Civis?’ 

“Do with me what you please: I shall not prove a 
traitor: if the Romans had courage, so have I to say 
“longus post me ordo idem petentium decus.’ ” 

“Get you hence,’ brawled the director; and the 
pedellus led me away. 


130 Debts of Honor 


Two hours afterwards they told me I might go 
home; I was saved. Just that implacable director had 
proved himself the best in his efforts to rescue us. 
One or two “ primani,” who had amused the tribunal 
with some very broad lies, were condemned to a few 
days’ lock-up. That was all. 

I thought that was the end of the joke. When they 
let me go I hurried to Lorand. I was proudly con- 
scious of my successful attempt to rescue my elder 
brother. 





CHAPTER VIII 
THE END OF THE BEGINNING 


Her ladyship, the beautiful wife of Balnokhazy, was 
playing with her parrot, when her husband entered 
her chamber. 

The lady was very fond of this creature—I mean of 
the parrot. 

“Well, my dear,” said Balnokhazy, “has Koko 
learned already to utter Lorand’s name? ”’ 

ioNoL yet: 

“ Well, he will soon learn. By the bye, do you know 
that Parliament is dissolved. Mr. Balnokhazy may 
now take his seat in peace beside his wife.” 

“ As far as I am concerned, it may dissolve.” 

“Well, perhaps you will be interested so far; the 
good dancers will now go home. The young men of 
Parliament will disperse to their several homes.” 

“T don’t wish to detain them.” 

“Of course not. Why, Lorand will remain here. 
But even Lorand will with difficulty be able to remain 
here. He must fly.” 

“What do you say?” 

“What I ought not to say out. Nor would I tell 
anyone other than you, my dear, as we agreed. Do 
you understand?” 

“Partly. You are referring to the matter of secret 
journalism?” 

“Yes, my dear, and to other matters which I have 
heard from you.” 

“Yes, from me. I told you frankly, what Lorand 
related to me in confidence, believing that I shared his 
enthusiastic ideas. I told you that you might use your 
knowledge for your own elevation. They were gifts 


131 


132. Debts of Honor 


of honor, as far as you are concerned, but I bound 
you not to bring any disgrace upon him from whom 
I learned the facts, and to inform me if any danger 
should threaten him.” 

Balnokhazy bent nearer to his wife and whispered 
in her ear: 

“ To-night arrests will take place.” 

“Whom will they arrest?” 

“ Several leaders of the Parliamentary youths, par- 
ticularly those responsible for the dissemination of the 
written newspaper.” 

“How can that affect Lorand? He has burned 
every writing; no piece of paper can be found in his 
room. The newspaper fragments, if they have come 
into strange hands, cannot be compared with his hand- 
writing. If hitherto he wrote with letters leaning for- 
wards, he will now lean them backwards: no one will 
be able to find any similarity in the handwritings. 
His brother, who copied them, has confessed nothing 
against him.” 

“True enough; but I am inclined to think that he 
has not destroyed everything he has written in this 
town. Once he wrote some lines in the album of a 
friend. A poem or some such stupidity ; and that album 
has somehow come into the hands of justice.” 

“And who gave it over?” enquired the lady pas- 
sionately. 

“ As it happens, the owner of the album himself.” 

r Gyalir 

“The same, my dear. He too thought that one must 
use a good friend’s shoulders to elevate himself.” 

Madam Balnokhazy bit her pretty lips until blood 
came. 

“Can you not help Lorand further?” she inquired, 
turning suddenly to her husband. 

i “Why, that is just what I am racking my brain to 
Our 
™ Will you save him?” 

“ That I cannot do, but I shall allow him to escape.” 

“To escape?” 





The End of the Beginning eee 


“ Surely there is no other choice, than either to let 
himself be arrested, or to escape secretly.” 

“ But in this matter we have made no agreement. 
It was not this you promised me.” 

™ My darling, don’t place any confidence in great 
men’s promises. The whole world over, diplomacy 
consists of deceit: you deceive me, I deceive you: you 
betrayed Lorand’s confidence, and Lorand deserved it: 
why did he confide in you so? You cannot deny that 
I am the most polite husband in the world. A young 
man pays his addresses to my wife: I see it, and know 
it; | am not angry; I do not make him leap out of the 
window, I do not point my pistol at him: I merely 
slap him on the shoulder with perfect nonchalance, and 
say, ‘ my dear boy, you will be arrested to-night in your 
bed.’ ”’) 

Balnokhazy could laugh most jovially at such sallies 
of humor. The whole of his beautiful white teeth 
could be seen as he roared with laughter—(even the 
gold wire that held them in place.) 

My lady Hermine rose from beside him, and seemed 
to be greatly irritated. 

“You are only playing the innocent before me, but 
I know quite surely that you put Gyali up to handing 
over the album to the treasury.” 

“You only wish to make yourself believe that, my 
dear, so that when Lorand disappears from the house, 
you may not be compelled to be angry with Gyali, but 
with me; for of course somebody must remain in the 
house.” 

“Your insults cannot hurt me.” 

“T did not wish to hurt you. My every effort was 
and always will be to make your life, my dear, ever 
more agreeable. Have I ever showed jealousy? 
Have I not behaved towards you like a father to a 
daughter about to be married?” 

“Don’t remind me of that, sir. That is your most 
ungracious trait. It is true that you yourself have in- 
troduced into our house young men of every class of 
society. It is true that you have never guarded me 


134 Debts of Honor 


against them :—but then in a short time, when you be- 
gan to remark that I felt some affection towards some 
of them, you discovered always choice methods to make 
me despise and abhor them. Had you shut me up and 
guarded me with the severity of a convent, you would 
have shown me more consideration. But you are play- 
ing a dangerous game, sir: maybe the time will come 
when I shall not cast out him whom I have hated!” 

“ Well, that will be your own business, my dear. But 
the first business is to tell our relation Lorand that by 
ten o’clock this evening he must not be found here: for 
at that hour they will come to arrest him.” 

Hermine walked up and down her room in anger. 

“ And it is all your work: it is useless for you to de- 
fend yourself,” said she, tossing away her husband’s 
hat from the arm-chair, and then throwing herself in 
a spiritless manner into it. 

“Why, I have no intention of defending myself,” 
said Balnokhazy, good-humoredly picking up his roll- 
ing hat. “ Of course I had a little share in it: why, you 
know it well enough, my dear. 'A man’s first business 
is to create a career. I have to rise: you approve of 
that yourself; it is a man’s duty to make use of every 
circumstance that comes to hand. Had I not done so, 
I should be a mere magistrate, somewhere in Szabolcs, 
who at the end of every three years kisses the 
hands of all the ‘ powers that be,’ that they may not 
turn him out of office. * The present chancellor, Adam 
Reviczky, was one class ahead of me in the school. He 
too was the head of his class, as | was of mine. Every 
year I took his place: at every desk, where I sat in the 
first place, I found his name carved, and always carved 
it out, putting mine in its place. He reached the height 
of the ‘ parabola,’ and is now about to descend. Who 
knows what may happen next? At such times we 
must not mind if we make celebrated men of a few 
lads, whom at other times we did not remark.’ 


* Every three years new magistrates and officials were elected 
to the various posts in the counties. 





The End of the Beginning 135 


** But consider, Lorand is a relation of ours.” 

“ That only concerns me, not you.” 

“Tt is, notwithstanding, terrible to ruin the career 
of a young man.” 

“ What will happen to him? He will fly away to the 
country to some friend of his, where no one will search 
for him. At most he will be prohibited from being 
‘called to the bar.’ But it will not prevent him from 
being elected lawyer to the county court at the first 
renovation. * Besides, Lorand is a handsome fellow: 
and the harm the persecution of men has done him will 
soon be repaired by the aid of women.” 

“Leave me to myself. I shall think about the mat- 
ter.” 

“T shall be deeply obliged to you. But, remember, 
please, ten o’clock this evening must not find here—the 
dear relation.” 

Hermine hastened to her jewel-case with ostentation. 
Balnokhazy, as he turned in the doorway, could see 
with what feverish anxiety she unlocked it and fum- 
bled among her jewels. 

With a smile on his face the husband went away. It 
is a fine instance of the irony of fate, when a woman is 
obliged to pawn her jewels in order to help someone 
escape whom she has loved, and whom she would love 
still to see about her,—to send him a hundred miles 
from her side. 

Hermine did indeed collect her jewels, and threw 
them into a travelling-bag. 

Then she sat down at her writing-table, and very 
hurriedly wrote something on some lilac-coloured letter 
paper on which the initials of her name had been 
stamped ; this she folded up, sealed it and sent it by her 
butler to Lorand’s room. 

Lorand had not yet stirred from the house that day; 
he did not know that part of the Parliamentary youth, 
gaining an inkling of the movement against them, had 
hurried to depart. 


* As explained above. 


136 Debts of Honor 


When he had read the letter of the P. C.’s wife, he 
begged the butler to go to Mr. Gyali and ask him in 
his name to pay him a visit at once: he must speak a 
few words to him without fail. 

When the butler had gone, Lorand began to walk 
swiftly up and down his room. He was in search of 
something which he could not find, an idea. 

He sat again, driving his fist into his hand: 
then sprang up anew and hastened to the window, as 
if in impatient expectation of the new-comer. 

Suddenly a thought came to him: he began to put 
on gloves, fine, white kid gloves. Then he tried to 
clench his fist in them without tearing them. 

Perhaps he does not wish to touch, with uncovered 
hands, him for whom he is waiting! 

At last the street door opened, and steps made direct 
for his door. 

Only let him come! but he, whom he expected did 
not come alone: the first to open his door was not Pepi 
Gyali, but his brother, Desiderius. By chance they had 
met. 

Lorand received his brother in a very spiritless man- 
ner. It was not he whom he wished to see now. Yet 
he rushed to embrace Lorand with a face beaming 
triumph. 

“ Well, and what has happened, that you are beam- 
ing so?” 

“The school tribunal has acquitted me: yet I drew 
everything on myself and did not throw any suspicion 
on you.” 

“T hope you would be insulted if I praised you for 
it. Every ordinary man of honor would have done 
the same. It is just as little a merit not to be a traitor 
as it is a great ignominy to be one. Am I not right? 
Pepi,—my friend?” . 

Pepi Gyali decided that Lorand could not have heard 
of his treachery and would not know it until he was — 
placed in some safe place. He answered naturally 
enough that no greater disgrace existed on earth than 
that of treachery. 


——— 


“ae 





The End of the Beginning 1377 


“ But why did you summon me in such haste,” he 
enquired, offering his hand confidently to Lorand; the 
latter allowed him to grasp his hand—on which was a 
glove. 

“T merely wished to ask you if you would take my 
vis-a-vis in the ball to-night following my farewell ban- 
quet?” 

“With the greatest pleasure. You need not even 
have asked me. Where you are, I must be also.” 

“Go upstairs, Desi, to the governess and ask her 
whether she intends to come to the ball to-night, or if 
the lady of the house is going alone.” 

Desiderius listlessly sauntered out of the room. 

He thought that to-day was scarcely a suitable day 
to conclude with a ball; still he did go upstairs to the 
governess. 

The young lady answered that she was not going 
for Melanie had a difficult “ Cavatina” to learn that 
evening, but her ladyship was getting ready, and the 
stout aunt was going with her. 

As Desiderius shut the door after him, Lorand stood 
with crossed arms before the dandy, and said: 

“Do you know what kind of dance it is, in which 
I have invited you to be my vis-a-vis? ” 

“What kind?” asked Pepi with a playful expres- 
sion. 

“A kind of dance at which one of us must die.” 
Therewith he handed him the lilac-coloured letter 
which Hermine had written to him: “ Read that.” 

Gyali read these lines: 

“ Gyali handed over the album-leaf you wrote on. 
All is betrayed.” 

The dandy similed, and placed his hands behind him. 

“Well, and what do you want with me?” he en- 
quired with cool assurance. 

“What do you think I want?” 

“Do you want to abuse me? We are alone, no one 
will hear us. If you wish to be vough with me, I shal! 
shout and collect a crowd in the : treet: that will also be 
bad for you.” 


138 Debts of Honor 


“T intend to do neither. You see I have put gloves 
on, that I may not befoul myself by touching you. 
Yet tyou can imagine that it is not customary to make 
a present of such a debt.” 

“Do you wish to fight a duel with me?” 

“Yes, and at once: | shall not allow you out of my 
sight until you have given me satisfaction.” 

“ Don’t expect that. Because you are a Hercules,and 
I a titmouse, don’t think I am overawed by your knitted 
eyebrows. If you so desire, | am ready.” 

“T like that.” 

“ But you know that as the challenged, I have the 
right to choose weapons and method.” 

“AON SO: 

“ And you will find it quite natural that I have no 
intention of being pummelled into a loaf of bread and 
devoured by you. I recommend the American duel. 
Let us put our names into a hat and he whose name 
is drawn is compelled to shoot himself.” 

Lorand was staggered. He recalled that night in 
the crypt. , 

“One of us must die; you said so yourself,” re- 
marked Gyali. ‘Good, I am not afraid of it. Let us 
draw lots, and then he whom fate chooses, must die.” 

Lorand gazed moodily before him, as if he were 
regarding things happening miles away. 

“T understand your hesitation: there are others 
whom you would spare. Well, let us fix a definite time 
for dying. How long can those, of whom you are 
thinking, live? Let us say ten years. He, whose 
name is drawn must shoot himself—to-day ten years.” 

“ Oh,” cried Lorand in a tone of vexation, “ this is 
merely a cowardly subterfuge by which you wish to 
escape.” 

' “Brave lion, you will fall just as soon, if you die, 
as the mouse. Your whole valor consists in being 
able to pin, with a round pin, a tiny little fly to the 
bottom of a box, but if you find an opponent, like your- 
\self, you draw back before him.” 

“T shall not draw back,” said Lorand irritated; and 





The End of the Beginning 139 


there appeared before his soul all those figures, which, 
pointing their fingers threateningly, rose before him 
from the depths of the earth. Headless phantoms re- 
turned to the seven cold beds; and the eighth was be- 
spoken. 

“ Be it so,” sighed Lorand: “ let us write our names.” 
Therewith he began to look for paper. But not a mor- 
sel was there in his room: all had been burned, clean 
At last he came across Hermine’s note. There was 
paper too, that the water mark might not betray him. 
no other alternative. Tearing it in two,—one part he 
threw to Gyali, on the other he inscribed his own name. 

Then they folded the pieces of paper and put them 
into a hat. 

“Who shall draw?” 

“You are the challenger.” 

“ But you proposed the method.” 

“Wait a moment. Let us entrust the drawing of 
lots to a third party.” 

“To whom?” 

“ There is your brother, Desi.” 

“ Desi? ’’—Lorand felt a twitching pain at his heart: 
—*“that one’s own brother should draw one’s death 
warrant!” 

“As yet his hand is innocent. Nor shall he know 
for what he is drawing. I will tell him some tale. 
And so both of us may be tranquil during the drawing 
of lots.” 

Just at that moment Desiderius opened the door. 

He related that the governess was not going, but the 
stout aunt was to accompany “auntie” to the ball. 
And the “ fratilein ” had sent Lorand a written dance- 
programme, which Desiderius had torn up on the way. 

He tore it up because he was angry that other peo- 
ple were in so frivolous a mood at a time when he felt 
so exalted. For that reason he had no intention of 
handing over the programme. 

Hearing of the stout aunt, Pepi laughed and then 
began to feign horror. 

“Great heavens, Lorand: the seven fat kine of the 


140 Debts of Honor 


Old Testament will be there in one: and one of us must 
dance with this monster. One of us will have to move 
from its place that mountain, which even Mahomet 
could not induce to stir, and waltz with it. Please un- 
dertake it for my sake.”’ 

Lorand was annoyed by the ill-timed jest which he 
did not understand. 

“Well, to be sure I cannot make the sacrifice : it must 
be either you or I. I don’t mind, let’s draw lots for it, 
and see who must dance this evening with the tower 
of St. Stephen’s.” 

“Very well,’—Lorand now understood what the 
other wanted. 

“ Desi will draw lots for us.” 

“Of course. Just step outside a moment, Desi, that 
you may not see on which paper which of our names 
was written.” Desiderius stepped outside. 

“ He must not see that the tickets are already pre- 
pared,” murmured Lorand: 

“You may come in now.” 

“Tn this hat are both our names,” said Gyali, hold- 
ing the hat before Desiderius: “ draw one of them out: 
open it, read it, and then put both names into the fire. 
The one whose name you draw will do the honors to the 
Cochin-China Emperor’s white elephant.” 

The two foes turned round toward the window. 
Lorand gazed out, while Gyali played with his watch- 
chain. 

The child unsuspectingly stepped up to the hat that 
served as the “ urna sortis,” and drew out one of the 
pieces of paper. 

He opened it and read the name, 

“Lorand Aronffy.” 

“ Put them in the fire,” said Gyali. 

Desiderius threw two pieces of lilac paper into the 
fire. 

They were cold May days; outside the face of nature 
had been distorted, and it was freezing; in Lorand’s 
fire-place a fire was blazing. The two pieces of paper 
were at once burnt up. 











The End of the Beginning 141 


Only they were not those on which the two young 
men had written their names. Desiderius, without be- 
ing noticed, had changed them for the dance pro- 
gramme, which he had cast into the fire. He kept the 
two fatal signatures to himself. 

He had a very good reason for doing so, and a still 
better reason for saying nothing about it. 

Lorand said: 

“Thank you, Desi.” 

He thanked him for drawing that lot. 

Pepi Gyali took up his hat and said to Lorand in 
playful jesting: 

“The white elephant is yours. Good night.’’ And 
he went away unharmed. 

“And now, my dear Desi, you must go home,” said 
Lorand, gently grasping his brother’s hand. 

“Why I have only just come.” 

“T have much to do, and it must be done to-day.” 

“Do it: I will sit down in a corner, and not say a 
word; I came to see you. I will be silent and watch 
you.” 

Lorand took his brother in his arms and kissed him. 

“TI have to pay a visit somewhere where you could 
not come with me.” 

Desiderius listlessly felt for his cap. 

“Yet I did so want to be with you this evening.” 

“To-morrow will do as well.” 

Lorand was afraid that the officers of justice might 
come any moment for him. For his part he did not 
mind: but he did not wish his brother to be present. 

Desiderius sorrowfully returned home. 

Lorand remained by himself. 

By himseif? Oh no. There around him were the 
others—seven in number: those headless dead. 

Well, fate is inevitable. 

Family misfortune is inherited. One is destroyed by 
the family disease, another by the hereditary curse. 

And again the cause is the “ sorrowful soil beneath 
them.” 

From that there is no escape. 


142 Debts of Honor 


A terrible inheritance is the self-shed blood, which 
besprinkles the heads of sons and grandsons! 

And his inheritance was—the pistol, with which his 
father had killed himself. 

It were vain for the whole Heaven to be here on 
earth. He must leave it, must go, where the others 
had gone. 

The eighth niche was still empty, but was already be- 
spoken. 

For later comers there was room only in the ditch of 
the graveyard. 

And there were still ten years left to think thereon! 
But ten years is a long time. Meanwhile that field 
might open where an honourable death, grasping a 
scythe in its two hands, cuts a way through the ranks 
of armed warriors:—where the children of weeping 
mothers are trampled to death by the hoofs of horses :— 
where they throw the first-born’s mangled remains into 
the common burying-pit : perhaps there the son will find 
what the father sought in vain:—those who fled from 
before the resting-chamber of that melancholy house, 
on the facade of which was to be read the inscription, 
covered by the creepers since days long gone by. 

“Ne nos inducas in tentationem.” 





CHAPTER IX 
AGED AT SEVENTEEN 


How beautiful it is to be young! How fair is the 
spring! Yours is life, joy, hope; the meadows lavish 
flowers upon you; the earth’s fair halo of love sur- 
rounds you with glory: a nation, a fatherland, mankind 
entrusts to you its fufure; old men are proud of you; 
women love you: every brightening day of heaven is 
yours. 

Oh, how I love the spring! how I love youth! In 
spring I see the fairest work of God, the earth, take 
new life; in youth I see the fairest work of man, his 
nation, reviving. 

“In those days” I did not yet belong to the 
“youth: ” I was a child. 

Never do I remember a brighter promise of spring, 
than in that year; never were the eyes of the old men 
gladdened by the sight of a more spirited “ youth” 
than was that of those days. 

Spring began very early: even at the end of February 
the fields were green, parks hastened to bedeck them- 
selves in their leafy wings, the blossoms hastened to 
bloom and fall; the opening days of May saw fruit on 
the apple-trees; and prematurely ripe cherries were 
“hawked ” in the streets, beside bouquets of late bloom- 
ing violets. 

Of the “ youths ” of that year the historian has writ- 
ten: “ These youths were in general very serious, very 
lavish in patriotic feeling, fiery and spirited in the de- 
fence of freedom and national dignity. The new ten- 
dency which manifested itself so vividly in our country 
was reflected by their impetuous and susceptible natures 
with all its noble yearnings, its virtues and excesses 


143 


’ 


144 Debts of Honor 


exaggerated. The frivolous pastimes, the senseless or 
dissolute amusements that were so fashionable in those 
days were abandoned for serious reading, gathering of 
information and investigation of current events. They 
had already opinions of their own, which not rarely 
they could utter with striking audacity.”—I could 
only envy these lines of gold; not one word of them 
had any reference to me: for I was still but a child. 
During a night that followed a lovely May day, the 
weather suddenly changed: winter, who was during 
the days of his dominion, watching how the warm 
breezes played with the flower-bells of the trees, all at 
once returned: with the full vigor of vengeance he 
came, and in three days destroyed everything, in which 
man happened to delight. To the last leaf everything 
was frozen off the trees. 

On this most inclement of the three wintry May 
evenings Lorand was standing alone at his window, 
and gazing abstractedly at the street through the ice- 
flower pattern of the window-panes. 

Just such ice-flowers lay frozen before his soul. The 
lottery of fate has appointed his time: ten years his life 
would last; then he must die. 

From seventeen to twenty-seven is just the fairest 
part of life. Many had made their whole earthly 
career during that period. 

And what awaits him? 

His ardent yearning for freedom, his audacious 
plans, his misplaced confidence; friends’ treason, and 
the consequent freezing rigor, where were they lead- 
MOGAtO! Sel 4 

Every leaf had fallen from the trees. Only ten years 
to live: the decree was unalterable. 

From the opponent, whom he despised, it is not pos- 
sible even to accept as a present, that to which chance 
has once given him the right. 

And these ten years, with what will they begin? 
Perhaps with a long imprisonment? The time which is 
so short—(ten years are light!) will seem so long 
there! (ten years are heavy!) Would it not be better 


se 





Aged at Seventeen 145 


not to wait for the first day? To say: if it is time, take 
it away: let me not take the days on lease from thee! 
The hateful, freezing days. 

Why, when nature dies in this wise, man himself 
would love to die after her. 

If only there were not that weeping face at home, 
that white-haired head, mother and grandmother. 

In vain Fate is inevitable. The eighth bed was al- 
ready made ;—but that no one must know for ten years. 
Should someone learn, he might perpetrate the out- 
tage of occupying earlier the eighth niche in the 
family vault; and then his successor would have noth- 
ing left but the church-yard grave. 

What a thought, a youthful spring with these frozen 
leaves! 

He did not think for the next few moments. Is it 
worth while to try to avoid the fate, which is certain? 
Let it come. The keystone of the arch had been re- 
moved, the downfall of the whole must follow. His 
room was already in darkness, but he did not light a 
lamp. The dancing flames of the fire-place gazed out 
sometimes above the embers, in curiosity, as if they 
would know whether any living being were there: and 
still he did not stir. 

In this dim twilight Lorand was thinking upon those 
who had passed away before him. 

That bony-faced figure, whose death face he was 
painting,—his ordinary physiognomy was terrible 
enough: those empty eye-sockets, into which he fears 
to gaze:—suppose between these two hollows a third 
was darkling, the place of the bullet that pierced his 
forehead ! 

Lorand now knew what torture must have been 
theirs, who had left him this sorrowfu! bequest, before 
they could make up their minds to raise their own 
hands against their own lives! with what power of 
God they must have struggled, with what power of 
devils have made a compact! Oh, if they would only 
come for him now! 


Who? 


146 Debts of Honor 


Those who picked the fruit that dared so early to 
ripen ? 

Yes, rather those, than these quiet, bloodless faces, 
in their bloody robes. Rather those who come with 
clank of arms, tearing open the door with drawn sword, 
than those who with inaudible step steal in, gently open 
the door, whisperingly speak and tremblingly pro- 
nounce your name. 

“Lorand.” 

“Ha! Who is that?” 

Not one of the dead, though her robe is white: one 
far worse than they :—a beautiful woman. 

It was Hermine who opened the door and entered 
Lorand’s room so silently, with inaudible steps. Her 
ball-robe was on her: she had dressed for the dance in 
her room above, and thus dressed had descended. 

“ Are you ready now, Lorand?”’ 

“Oh, good evening: pardon me. I willJight a can- 
dle in a moment.” 

“Never mind about that,” whispered the woman. 
“It is quite light enough as it is. To-day no candle 
may burn in this room.” 

“ You are going to a ball,” said Lorand, masking the 
sorrow of his soul by a display of good spirits: “ and 
you wish me to accompany you?” 

“ Fancy the thought of dancing coming into my head 
just now!” replied Hermine, coming so close to Lor- 
and that she could whisper in his ear. “ Did you get 
my letter?” 

“Yes, thank you. Don’t be alarmed, there is no dan- 

et. 

“Indeed there is. I know it well. The danger is in 
the hands of Balnokhazy: therefore certain. 

“What great harm can happen to me?” 

Hermine placed her hand on Lorand’s shoulder and 
tremblingly hissed: 

“They will arrest you to-night.” 

“They may do so.” 

“Oh no, they may not, kind Heaven! That they 
shall not do. You must escape, immediately, this 
hour.” 





Aged at Seventeen 147 


“Ts it sure they will arrest me? ” 

“ Believe me, yes.” 

“Then just for that reason I shall not stir from my 
place.” 

“What are you saying? Why? Why not?” 

“ Because I should be ashamed, if they who wanted 
me should draw me out from under my bed in my 
mother’s house, like a child who has played some mis- 
chief.” 

“Who is speaking now of your mother’s house? 
You must fly far: away to foreign lands.” 

“Why?” asked Lorand coldly. 

“Why? My God, what questions you put. I don’t 
know how to answer! Can you not see that I am in 
despair, that every limb of my body trembles for my 
fear on your account? Believe me, | cannot possibly 
allow them to take you away from before my eyes, to 
imprison you for years, so that I shall never see you 
again.” 

To appeal the more to Lorand’s feelings, and to show 
him how her hands trembled she tore off her beautiful 
ball gloves, and grasped his hands in her own and then 
sobbed before him. 

As she touched him Lorand began to feel, instead of 
his previous tomblike chillness, a kind of agitating heat 
as if the cold bony hand of death had given over his 
hand to some other unknown demon. 

“What shall I do in a foreign country? I have no 
one, nothing, no way there. Everyone I love is here, 
in thisland. There I should go mad.” 

“You will not be alone there, because the one who 
loves you best on earth, who worships you above all, 
who loves you better than her health, her. soul, better 
than heaven itself, goes with you and will never leave 
you.” 

The young man could make no mistake as to whom 
she meant: Hermine encircled his young neck with her 
beautiful arms and overwhelmed his face with kisses. 

Lorand was no longer his own. In one hour he lost 
his home, his fortune, and his heart. 


CHAPTER X_ 
I AND THE DEMON 


It was already late in the evening when Balnokhazy’s 
butler brought me a letter, and then hurriedly departed, 
before I could read it. 

It was Lorand’s writing. The message was short: 

“My dear brother :—I have been betrayed and must 
escape: comfort our dear parents. Good-bye.” 

I leaped up from my bed :—! had already gone to bed 
that I might get up early on the morrow :—and has- 
tened to dress. 

My first idea was to go to Balnokhazy. He was my 
uncle and relation, and was extremely fond of us: be- 
sides, he was very influential ; he could accomplish any- 
thing he wished, I would tell him everything frankly, 
and beg him to do for my brother what he was capable 
of doing: to prevent his prosecution and arrest, or, if 
he was convicted, to secure his pardon. Why, to such 
a great man nothing could be impossible. 

I begged old Marton to open the door for me. 

“What! discipulus negligens! To slip out of the 
house at night is not proper. He who wanders about 
at night can be no Lieutenant Governor—at most a 
night-watchman.” 

“No joking now; they are prosecuting my brother! 
I must go and help him.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me at once? Prosecute in- 
deed? You should have told me that. Who? Per- 
haps the butcher clerks? If so, let us all six go with 
clubs to his aid.” 

“No, they are not butcher clerks. What are you 
thinking of?” 


148 








I and the Demon 149 


“Why, in past years the law-students were continu- 
ally having brawls with butcher clerks.” 

“They want to arrest him,” I whispered to him, “ to 
put him in prison, because he was one of the ‘ Parlia- 
mentary youth ’ lot.” 

“ Aha,” said Marton, “that’s where we are is it? 
That, is beyond my assistance. And, what can you 
do?’ 

“TI must go to my uncle Balnokhazy at once and ask 
him to interfere.” 

“That’s surely a wise thing to do. Under those cir- 
cumstances I shall go with you. Not because I think 
you would be afraid to go by yourself at night, but 
that I may be able to tell the old man by-and-bye that 
you were not in mischief.” 

The old fellow put on a coat in a moment, and a pair 
of boots, then accompanied me to the Balnokhazys. 

He did not wish to come in, but told me that, on my 
way back, I should look for him at the corner beer- 
house, where he would wait for me. 

I hurried up stairs. 

I was greatly disappointed to find my brother’s door 
closed: at other times that had always been my first 
place of retreat. 

I heard the piano in the “ salon ”: so I went in there. 

Melanie was playing with the governess. 

They did not seem puipiecd that I came at so late 
an hour; I only noticed that they behaved a little more 
stiffly towards me than on other occasions. 

Melanie was deeply engrossed in studying the notes. 
I enquired whether I could speak with my uncle. 

“ He has not yet come home from the club,” said the 
governess. _ 

“ And her ladyship.” 

“She has gone to the ball.” 

That annoyed me a little. 

“ And when do they come home?” 

“The Privy Councillor at eleven o’clock, he usually 
plays whist till that hour; her ladyship probably not 
until after midnight. Do you wish to wait?” 


150 Debts of Honor 


“Yes, until my uncle returns.” 

“Then you can take supper with us.” 

“Thank you, I have already had supper.” 

“Do they have supper so early at the baker’s? ” 

” Yes.” 

I then sat down beside the piano, and thought for a 
whole hour what a stupid instrument the piano was; 
a man’s head may be full of ideas, and it will drive 
them all out. 

Yet I had so much to ponder over. What should I 
say to my uncle when he came. With what should I 
begin? How could I tell him what I knew? What 
should I ask from him? 

But how was it possible that neither was at home 
at such a critical time? Surely they must have been 
informed of such a misfortune. I did not dare to in- 
troduce Lorand’s name before the governess. Who 
knows what others are? Besides, I had no sympathy 
for her. For mea governess seemed always a most 
frivolous creature. 

In the room there was a large clock that caused me 
most annoyance. How long it took for those hands to 
reach ten o'clock! Then, when it did strike, its tone 
was of that aristocratic nasal quality that it must have 
acquired from the voices of the people around it. 

Sometimes the governess laughed, when Melanie 
made some curious mistake; Melanie, too, laughed and 
peeped from behind her music to see if I was smiling. 

I had not even noticed it. 

Then my pretty cousin poutingly tossed back her 
curly hair, as if she were annoyed that I too was begin- 
ning to play a part of indifference towards her. 

At last the street-door bell rang. From the foot- 
steps I knew my uncle had come. They were so dig- 
nified. 

Soon the butler entered and said I could speak with 
his lordship, if I so desired. 

Trembling all over, I took my hat, and wished the 
ladies good-night. 


nn 





I and the Demon 151 


“ Are you not coming back, to hear the end of the 
Cavatina ;” inquired Melanie. 

“T cannot,” I answered, and left them there. 

My uncle’s study was on the farther side of the hall; 
the butler lighted my way with a lamp, then he put it 
down on a chest, that I might find my way back. 

“Well, my child, what do you want?” inquired my 
uncle, in that gay, playful tone, which we are wont to 
use in speaking to children to express that we are quite 
indifferent as to their affairs. 

I answered languidly, as if some gravestone were 
weighing upon my breast, 

“Dear uncle, Lorand has left us.’ 

“You know already?” he asked, putting on his many 
colored embroidered dressing-gown. 

“You know too?” I exclaimed, taken aback. 

“What, that Lorand has run away?” remarked my 
uncle, coolly buttoning together the silken folds of his 
dressing gown; “why I know more than that:—I 
know also that my wife has run away with him, and all 
my wife’s jewels, not to mention the couple of thousand 
florins that were at home—all have run away with your 
brother Lorand.” 

How I reached the street after those words; whether 
they opened the door for me; whether they led me 
out or kicked me out, I assure you I do not know. I 
only came to myself, when Marton seized my arm in 
the street and shouted at me: 

“Well sir Lieutenant-Governor, you walk right into 
me without even seeing me. I got tired of waiting in 
the beer-house and began to think that they had run 
you in too. Well, what is the matter? How you 
stagger.” 

“Oh! Marton,” I stammered, “I feel very faint.” 

“What has happened? ” 

“T cannot tell anyone that.” 

“Not to anyone? No! not to Mr. Brodfresser,* nor 


*The name given to Desiderius’ professor (‘bread de- 
vourer”’). 


rg2 Debts of Honor 


to Mr. Commissioner :—but to Marton, to old Marton? 
Has old Marton ever let out anything? Old Marton 
knows much that would be worth his while to tell tales 
about: have you ever heard of old Marton being a gos- 
sip? Has old Marton ever told tales against you or 
anyone else? And if I could help you in any way?” 

There was a world of frank good-heartedness in these 
reproaches ; besides I had to catch after the first straw 
to find a way of escape. 

“Well, and what did my old colleague say 2—You 
know the reason I call him* colleague,’ is that my hair 
always acts as if it were a wig, while his wig always 
acts as it if were hair.” 

“He said,” I answered tremblingly, hanging on to 
his arm, “he knew more than I. Lorand has not 
merely run away, but has stolen my uncle’s wife.” 

At these words Marton commenced to roar with 
laughter. He pressed his hands upon his stomach and 
just roared, then turned round, as if he wished to give 
the further end of the street a taste of his laughter; 
then he remarked that it was a splendid joke, at which 
remark I was sufficiently scandalized. 

* And then he said—that Lorand had stolen his 
money.” 

At this Marton straightened himself and raised his 
head very seriously. 

“That is bad. That is ‘amill,’ as Father Fromm 
would say. Well, and what do you think of it, sir?” 

“TJ think, it cannot be true; and I want to find my 
brother, no matter what has become of him. 

“And when you have found him?” 

“ Then, if that woman is holding him by one hand, I 
shall seize the other and we shall see which of us will be 
the stronger.” 

Marton gave me a sound slap on the back, saying 
“Teufelskerl.* What are you thinking of ?—would 
other children mind, if a beautiful woman ran away 
with their brother? But this one wishes to stand be- 








* Devil’s fellow: 4. e., devil of a fellow. 





I and the Demon 153 


tween them. Excellent. Well, shall we look for Mas- 
ter Lorand? How will you begin?” 

“T don’t know.” 

“Let me see; what have you learned at school? 
What can you do, if you are suddenly thrown back on 
your own resources? Which way will you start? Right 
or left: will you cry in the street, ‘ Who has seen my 
brother?’ ” 

Indeed I did not know how to begin. 

“ Well,—you shall see that you can at times make 
use of that old fellow Marton. Trust yourself to me. 
Listen to me now, as if I were Mr. Brodfresser. If 
two of them ran away together, surely they must have 
taken acarriage. The carriage was a fiacre. Madame 
has always the same coachman, number 7. I know him 
well. So first of all we must find Moczli: that is 
coachman No. 7. He lives in the Zuckermandel. It’s 
a cursed long way, but that’s all the better, for by the 
time we get to his house we shall be all the surer to find 
him at home.” 

“Tf he was the one who took them.” 

“Don't play the fool now, sir studiosus. I know what 
cab-horses are. They could not take anyone as far 
as the border; at most as far as some wayside inn, 
where speedy country horses can be found: there the 
runaways are waiting while the fiacre is returning.” 

In astonishment I asked what made him surmise all 
this: when it seemed to me that with speedy country 
horses they might already be far beyond the frontier. 

“ Sir Lieutenant-Governor,” was Marton’s hasty re- 
proof; ‘“‘ How could you have such ideas? You expect 
to become Lieutenant-Governor some day, yet you don’t 
know that he who wishes to pass the frontiers must be 
supplied with a passport. No one can go without a 
pass from Pressburg to Vienna; Madame has quite 
surely despatched Moczli back to bring to her the 
gentleman with whose ‘pass’ they are to escape 
farther.” 

“What gentleman? ”’ 

“ An actor from the theatre here, who will arrange 


154 Debts of Honor 


that the young gentleman shall pass the frontier with 
his passport.” 

“ How can you figure it all out?” 

Marton paused for a moment, made an ugly mouth, 
closed his left eye, and hissed through his teeth, 
as if he would express by all this pantomime that 
there are things which cannot be held under children’s 
noses. 

“ Well, never mind; you do wish to be a county of- 
ficer or something of the kind. So you must know 
about such things sooner or iater, when you will have 
to examine people on such questions. I will tell you— 
I know because Moczli once told me just such a story 
about madame.” 

“Once before?” 

“ Certainly,” said Marton chuckling wickerly. ‘“ Ha 
ha! Madame is a cute little woman. But then no one 
knows of it—only Moczli and I; and Madame’s hus- 
band. Her husband has already pardoned her for it: 
Moczli was well paid; and what business is it of 
Marton’s? All three of us hold our tongues, like a 
broiled fish. But it is not the first time it has 
happened.” 

I do not know why, but this discovery somehow re- 
lieved my bitterness. I began to surmise that Lorand 
was not the most deeply implicated in the crime. 

“Well, let us go first of all to Moczli,” said Marton; 
“But I have a promise to exact from you. Don’t say 
a word yourself; leave the talking to me. For he isa 
cursed fellow, this Moczli; if he finds that we wish to 
get information out of him, he will lie like a book: but 
I will suddenly drive in upon him, so that he will not 
know whether to turn to the right or to the left. I will 
spring something on him as if I knew all about it, that 
will scare him out of his wits and then I’ll press him 
close, so that it’ll take his breath away, and before he 
knows it [ll have that secret squeezed out of him to the 
very last drop. You must observe how it is done, so 
that you can make use of similar methods in the future 
when in the position of Lieutenant-Governor you will 








I and the Demon 155 


have to cross-question some suspicious rascal in order 
to wring the truth out of him! 

By this time we had started at a brisk pace along the 
banks of the Danube. I wasn’t dressed for such a 
dismal night, and old Marton was doing his best to 
shield me with the wing of his coat against the chilling 
gusts that rushed against us from the river. At the 
same time he made every effort to make me believe that 
what we were engaged in was one of the finest jokes he 
had ever taken a hand in, and that our recollections of 
it will afford us no end of amusement in the future. At 
the foot of the castle-hill, along the banks of the 
Danube was a group of tottering houses; tottering 
because in spring, when the ice broke up, the Dan- 
ube roared and dashed among them. Here lived the 
fiacre drivers. Here were the cab-horses in tumble- 
down stables. 

It was a ball-night: in the windows of the tumble- 
down houses candles were burning, for the cabmen 
were waiting till midnight, when they would again 
harness their horses and return to fetch their patrons 
from the ball-room. 

Marton looked in at one window so lighted; he had 
to climb up on something to do so, for the ground floor 
was built high, in order that the water might not enter 
at the windows. 

“ He is at home,” he remarked, as he stepped down, 
“but he is evidently preparing to go out again, for he 
has his top-coat on.” 

The gate was open; the carriage was in the court- 
yard, the horses in the shafts, covered with rugs. 

Their harness had not even been taken off: they 
must have just arrived and had to start again at once. 

Marton motioned to me to follow him at his heels 
while he made his way into the house. 

The door we ran up against could not be opened 
unless one knew the tricks that made it yield. Marton 
seemed to be well acquainted with the peculiarities of 
the entrance to Moczli’s den: first he pressed down on 
the door knob and raised the whole door bracing 


156 Debts of Honor 


against it with his shoulder, then turning the knob and 
giving the door a severe kick it flew open and in the 
next moment we found ourselves in a dingy, narrow 
hole of a room smelling horribly of axle-grease, tallow 
and tobacco-smoke. 

On a table, which was leaning against the wall with 
the side where a leg was broken, stood a burning tal- 
low-dip stuck into the mouth of an empty beer-jug, and 
by its dim light Moczli was seated eating—no, devour- 
ing his supper. With incredible rapidity he was piling 
in and ramming down, as it were, enormous slices of 
blood-sausage in turn with huger chunks of salted 
bread. 

His many-collared coat was thrown over his huge 
frame, and his broad-brimmed hat that was pressed 
over his eyes was still covered with hoar-frost that had 
no chance of thawing in that cold, damp room, the wall 
of which glistened like the sides of some dripping cave. 

Moczli was a well-fed fellow, with strongly pro- 
truding eyes, which seemed almost to jump out of their 
sockets as he stared at us for bursting in upon him 
without knocking. 

“Well, where does it ‘ burn ?’” were his first words 
to Marton. 

“Gently, old fellow; don’t make a noise. There is 
other trouble! You are betrayed and they will pinch the 
young gentleman at the frontier.” 

Moczli was really scared fora moment. A tremen- 
dous three-cornered chunk of bread that he had just 
thrust in his mouth stuck there staring frightenedly at 
us like Moczli himself and looking for all the world as 
if a second nose was going to grow on his face; how- 
ever he soon came to himself, continued the munching 
process, gulped it all down, and then drank a huge 
draught out of a monstrous glass, his protruding eyes 
being all the while fixed on me. 

“T surely thought there was a fire somewhere, and 
I must go for a fire-pump again with my horses.—I 
must always go for the pump, if a fire breaks out 


anywhere. Even if there is a fire in the mill quarter, it 





I and the Demon 157 


is only me they drive out: why does not the town keep 
horses of her own?” 

“Do you hear, Moczli,” Marton interrupted, ‘“ don’t 
talk to me now of the town pumps don’t sprinkle 
your throat either, for it’s not there that it is burning, 
but your back will be burning immediately, if you don’t 
listen to me. Her ladyship’s husband learned all. 
They will forestall the young gentleman at the frontier, 
and bring him back.” 

Moczli endeavored to display a calm countenance, 
though his eyes belied him. 

“What ‘ young gentleman’ do you mean, and what 
“ladyship?’” 

Marton bent over him and whispered, 

“ Moczli, you don’t want to make a fool of yourself 
before me, surely. Was it not you that took away Bal- 
nokhazy’s wife in the company of a young gentleman? 
Your number is on your back: do you think no one 
can see it?” 

“Tf I did take them off, where did I drive them to? 
Why to the ball.” 

“A fine ball, indeed. You know they want to ar- 
rest the ‘ juratus.’ He will find one for you soon where 
they play better music. Here is his younger brother, 
just come from seeing his lordship, who told him his 
wife had eloped with the young gentleman whom they 
would search for in every direction.” 

Moczli was at this moment deeply engaged in pick- 
ing his teeth. First with his tongue, then with his 
fingers, until he found a wisp of straw with which to 
clean them, and at which, like drowning people, he 
clutched to save himself. 

“Well, do you think I care: anyone may send for 
anyone else for all I mind. I have seen no one, have 
taken no one away. And if I did take someone, what 
business of mine is it to know what the one is doing 
with the other? And even if I did know that some- 
one has eloped with someone else’s wife, what business 
is it of mine? I am no ‘syndic’ that I should bother 
my head to ask questions about it: I carry woman or 


158 Debts of Honor 


man, who pays, according to the tariff of fares. 
Otherwise I know absolutely nothing.” 

“Well, good-bye, and God bless you, Moczli,” said 
Marton hastily. ‘If you don’t know about it, some- 
one else must know about it. However, we didn’t come 
here to gaze into your dreamy eyes, but to free this 
young gentleman’s brother: we shall search among 
the other fiacres, until we find the right one, for it is 
a critical business: and if we find that fiacre in which 
the young fellow came to harm and cannot manage 
to secure his escape, I would not like to be in his shoes.” 

“In whose shoes?” inquired Moczli, terrified. 

“In the young gentleman’s not at all, but still less 
in the fiacre-driver’s. Well, good-night, Moczli.” 

At these words Moczli leaped up from his chair and 
sprang after Marton. 

“Wait a moment: don’t be a fool. Come with me. 
Take your seats in my fiacre. But the devil take me 
if I have seen, heard or said anything.” 

Therewith he removed the rugs from his horses, 
placed me inside the carriage, covering me with a rug, 
took Marton beside him on the box, and drove desper- 
ately along the bank of the Danube. 

Long did I see the lamps of the bridge glittering in 
the water ; then suddenly the road turned abruptly, and, 
to judge by the almost intolerable shaking of the car- 
riage and the profound darkness, we had entered one of 
those alleys, the paving of which is counted among the 
curses of civilization, the street-lamps being entrusted 
to the care of future generations. 

The carriage suddenly proceeded more heavily: per- 
haps we were ascending a hill: the whip was being plied 
more vigorously every moment on the horses’ backs: 
then suddenly the carriage stopped. 

Moczli commenced to whistle as if to amuse himself, 
at which I heard the creaking of a gate, and we drove 
into some courtyard. 

When the carriage stopped, the coachman leaped off 
the box, and addressed me through the window. 

“We are here: at the end of the courtyard is a small 





I and the Demon 159 


room; a candle is burning in the window. The young 
gentleman is there.” 

“Ts the woman with him too?” I inquired softly. 

“No. She is at the ‘ White Wolf,’ waiting with the 
speedy peasant cart, until I bring the gentleman with 
whom she must speak first.” 

“He cannot come yet, for the performance is not 
yet over.” 

Moczli opened his eyes still further. 

“You know that too?” 

I hastened across the long dark courtyard and found 
the door of the little room referred to. A head was 
to be seen at the lighted window. Lorand was stand- 
ing there melting the ice on the panes with his breath, 
that he might see when the person he was expecting 
arrived. 

Oh how he must have loved her. What a desperate 
struggle awaited me! 

When he saw me from the window, he disappeared 
from it, and hurried to meet me. 

At the door we met and in astonishment he asked: 

“How did you get here?” 

I said nothing, but embraced him, and determined 
that even if he cut me in pieces, I would never part 
from him. 

“Why did you come after me? How did you find 
your way hither?” 

I saw he was annoyed. He was displeased that I 
had come. 

“Those, who saw you take your seat in a carriage, 
directed me.” 

He visibly shuddered. 

“Who saw me?” 

ie Don't be afraid. Someone who will not betray 
you.’ 

ant what do you want? Why did you come after 
me?’ 

“ You know, dear Lorand, when we left home mother 
whispered in my ear, ‘take care of Lorand,’ when 
zrandmother left us here, she whispered in my ear, 


160 Debts of Honor 


‘take care of your brother.’ They will ask me to give 
account of how I loved you. And what shall I tell 
them, if they ask me ‘ where were you when Lorand 
stood in direst danger?’”’ 

Lorand was touched; he pressed me close to his 
heart, saying :— 

“ But, how can you help me? 

“T don’t know. I only know that I shall follow you, 
wherever you go.” 

This very naive answer roused Lorand to anger. 

“You will go to hell with me! Do I want irons on 
my feet to hinder my steps when I scarce know myself 
whither I shall fly? I know not how to rescue myself, 
and must I rescue you too?” 

Lorand was in a violent rage and strove to shake me 
off from him. Yet I would not leave go of him. 

“What if I intend to rescue you?” 

“You?” he said, looking at me, and thrusting his 
hands in his pockets. “ What part of me will you de- 
fend?” 

“Your honor, Lorand.” 

Lorand drew back at these words. 

“My honor?” 

“ And mine:—You know that father left us one in 
common, one we cannot divide—his unsullied name. 
It is entirely mine, just as it is entirely yours.” 

Lorand shrugged his shoulders indifferently. 

“ Let it be yours entirely: I give over my claim.” 

This indifference towards the most sacred ideas quite 
embittered me. I was beside myself, I must break out. 

“Yes, because you wish to take the name of a wan- 
dering actor, and to elope with a woman who has a 
husband.” 

“Who told you?” Lorand exclaimed, standing be- 
fore me with clenched fists. 

I was far from being afraid of anyone: I answered 
coolly. 

“That woman’s husband.” 

Lorand was silent and began to walk feverishly up 
and down the narrow, short, little room. Suddenly he 


9 








J and the Demon 161 


stopped, and half aside addressed me, always in the 
same passionate tones. 

“ Desi, you are still a child.” 

“T know.” 

“ There are things which cannot yet be explained to 
you.” 

“On such subjects you may hold your peace.” 

“ You have spoken with that woman’s husband? ” 

“ He said, you had eloped with his wife.” 

“ And that is why you came after me?” 

“ce Yes.’’ 

“Now what do you want?” 

“T want you to leave that woman.” 

“Have you lost your senses?” 

“Mine? Not yet.” 

“You wish perhaps to hint that I have lost mine: it 
is possible, very possible.”’ 

Therewith he sat down beside the table, and lean- 
ing his chin on his hands, began to gaze abstractedly 
into the candle-flames like some real lunatic. 
hi I stepped up to him, and laid my head on his shoul- 

er. 

“Dear Lorand, you are angry with me.” 

“No. Only tell me what else you know.” 

“Tf you wish I will leave you here and return.” 

“Do as you wish.” 

“ And what shall I tell dear mother, if she asks ques- 
tions about you?”’ 

Lorand dispiritedly turned his head away from me. 

“You wrote to me to cheer and comfort mother and 
grandmother :—tell me then, what shall I write to them, 
if they enquire after you?” 

Lorand answered defiantly, 

“Write that Lorand is dead.” 

At his answer the blood boiled within me. I seized 
my brother’s hands and cried to him: 

“ Lorand, till now the fathers were suicides in our 
family: do you wish that the mothers should continue 
the list?” 

It was a pitiless remark of mine, I knew. Lorand 


162 Debts of Honor 


commenced to shiver, I felt it. He stood up before me 
and became so pale. 

I wished I had addressed him more gently. 

“My dear brother Lorand, could you bear to become 
responsible for a mother, who left her child, and for 
another who died for her child? ”’ 

Lorand clasped his hands and bowed his head. 

“ Tf you only knew what you are saying to me now?” 
he said with such bitter reproach that I can never for- 
get it. 

“ But I have not yet told you all I know.” 

“What do you know? As yet you are happy—your 
life mere play—passion does not yet trouble you. But 
I am already lost, through what, you have no idea, and 
may you never have!” 

How he must love that woman! 

It would have cost me few words to make him hate 
and despise her, but I did not wish to break his heart. 
I had other means with which to steel his heart, that 
he might wake up, as from a delirious dream, to 
another life. 

I too had had visions about my piano-playing beauty: 
but I had forgotten that ideal for ever and ever, for be- 
ing able to play, after she knew her mother had run 
away.—But that was mere childish love, a child’s 
thought—there is something, however, in the heart 
which is awakened earlier, and dies later than passion, 
that is a feeling of honor, and I had as much of that as 
Lorand: let us see whose was the stronger. 

“Lorand, I don’t know what enchantment it was, 
with which this woman could lure you after her. But 
I know that I too have a magic word, which will tear 
you from her.” 

“Your magic word?—Do you wish to speak of 
mother? Do you wish to stand in my way with her 
name ?—Do so.—The only effect you will produce, by 
worrying me very much, will be that I shall blow my 
brains out here before you: but from that woman you 
can never tear me.” 


I and the Demon 163 


“T have no intention to speak of poor mother. It is 
a different subject I have in mind.” 

“ Something, or someone else.” 

“Tt is Balnokhazy, for whose sake you are going to 
leave this woman.” 

Lorand shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Do you think I am afraid of Balnokhazy’s prosecu- 
tion?” 

“ He has no intention of prosecuting you. He has 
been very considerate to his wife in similar cases. 
Well, don’t knit your eyebrows so; I am not saying a 
word about his wife. I have no business with women. 
Balnokhazy will not prosecute you, he will merely tell 
the world what has happened to him.” 

Lorand, with a bitter smile of scorn, asked me: 

“What will he relate to the world?” 

“ That his wife broke open his safe, stole his jewels, 
and his ready money, and eloped with a young man.” 

Lorand turned abruptly to me like one whom a snake 
has bitten, 

“What did he say?” 

“That his faithless wife in company with a young 
man, whom he had treated like his own child, has stolen 
his money, and then run away, like a thief—with her 
companion in theft!” 

Lorand clutched at the table for support. 

“Don’t, don’t say any more.” 

“T shall. I have seen the safes, empty, in which the 
family treasures were wont to be piled. I heard from 
the cabman, who handed in her travelling bag after her 
that ‘it must have been full of gold, it was so heavy.’ ” 

Lorand’s face was burning now like the clouds of a 
storm-swept sky at sunset. 

“ Did you have the bag in your hands?” I asked him. 

“ Not a word more!” Lorand cried, pressing my arm 
so that it pained me. “‘ That woman shall never see me 
again.” 

Then he sank upon the table and sobbed. 

How glad I felt that I had been able to move him. 


164 Debts of Honor 


Soon he raised his tear-stained face, stood up, came 
to me, embraced and kissed me. 

“You have conquered !—Now tell me what else you 
want with me?” 

I was incapable of uttering a word, so oppressed was 
my heart in my delight, my anguish. It was no child’s 
play, this. Fate is not wont to entrust such a struggle 
to a child’s hands. 

“ Brother, dear!” more I could not say: I felt as he 
must have when he brought me up from the bottom of 
the Danube. 

“ You will not allow anyone,” he whispered, “ to ut- 
ter such a calumny against me.” 

“You may be sure of that.” 

“You will not let them degrade me before mother? ” 

“T shall defend you. You see that after all I am 
capable of defending you——But time is precious :—they 
are prosecuting you for another crime too, you know, 
from which to escape is a duty. There is not a mo- 
ment to lose. Fly! 

“Whither? I cannot take new misfortunes to moth- 
er’s house.” 

“T have an idea. We have a relation of whom we 
have heard much, far off in the interior of the country, 
where they will never look for you, since we were never 
on good terms with him, Uncle Topandy.” 

“That infidel?’’ exclaimed Lorand; then he added 
bitterly, “It was a good idea of yours, indeed: 
I shall have a very good place in the house of an atheist, 
who lives at enmity with the whole earth, and with 
Heaven besides.” 

“ There you will be well hidden.” 

“Well and for ever.” 

“Don’t say that. This danger will pass away.” 

“Listen to me, Desi,” said Lorand severely. “ I shall 
abide by what you say: I shall go away, without once 
looking behind: I shall bury myself, but on one condi- 
tion, which you must accept, or I shall go to the nearest 
police station and report myself.” 

“What do you wish?” 





I and the Demon 165 


“That you shall never tell either mother or grand- 
mother, where I have gone to.” 

“Never?” I inquired, frightenedly. 

“No, only after ten years, ten years from to-day.” 

“cc Why? ” 

“Don’t ask me: only give me your word of honor to 
keep my secret. If you do not do so, you will inflict 
a heavy sorrow on me, and on all our family.” 

“ But if circumstances change?” 

“T said, not for ten years. And, if the whole world 
should dance with delight, still keep peace and don’t call 
for me, or put my mother on my tracks. I have a 
special reason for my desire, and that reason I cannot 
tell you.” 

“ But if they ask me, if they weep before me? ”’ 

“ Tell them nothing ails me, ] am in a good place. I 
shall take another name, *Balint Tatray. Topandy 
also shall know me under that name. I shall find my 
way to his place as bailiff, or servant, whichever he will 
accept me as, and then I shall write to you once every 
month. You will tell my loved ones at home what you 
know of me. And they will love you twice as well for 
it: they will love you in place of me.” 

Ihesitated. It was a difficult promise. 

“Tf you love me, you must undertake it for my sake.” 

I clung to him and said I would undertake to keep 
the secret. For ten years I would not say before 
mother or grandmother where their dearest son had 
gone. 

Would they reach the end of those ten years? 

“You undertake that—on your word of honor?” 
said Lorand, gazing deeply into my eyes; on that hon- 
or by which you just now so proudly appealed to me? 
Look, the whole Aronffy name is borne by you alone. 
Do you undertake it for the honor of that whole name, 
not to mention this secret before mother or grand- 
mother?” 

“ T do—on my word of honor.” 


* A name peculiarly Maygar. 


166 Debts of Honor 


He grasped my hand. He trusted so much to that 
word! 

“ Well, now be quick. The carriage is waiting.” 

“Carriage? With that I cannot travel far. Besides 
it is unnecessary. I have two good legs, they will carry 
me, if necessary, to the end of the world, without de- 
manding payment afterwards.” 

I took a little purse, on the outside of which mother 
had worked a design, from my pocket, and wished to 
slip it into Lorand’s side-pocket without attracting at- 
tention. 

He discovered it. 

“ What is this?” 

“A little money. I thought you might want it for 
the journey.” 

“How did you come by it?” enquired my brother in 
astonishment. 

“ Why, you know, you yourself paid me two twenties 
a sheet, when I copied those writings.” 

“ And you have kept it? ”—Lorand opened the purse, 
and saw within it about twenty florins. He began to 
laugh. 

How glad I was to see him laugh now, I cannot tell 
you, his laughter infected me too, then I do not know 
why, but we laughed together, very good-spiritedly. 
Now as I write these words the tears stand in my eyes 
—and I did laugh so heartily. 

“Why, you have made a millionaire of me.” 

Then cheerfully he put my purse into his pocket. 
And I did not know what to do in my delight at Lor- 
and’s accepting my money. 

“Now comrade mine, I could go to the end of the 
world. I don’t have to play ‘ armen reisender ’ * on the 
way.” 

When we stepped out again through the low door 
into the narrow dark courtyard, Marton and Moczlt 
were standing in astonishment before us. Anyone 


* Poor traveller. 


I and the Demon 167 


could see they could not comprehend what they had 
seen by peeping through the window. 

“T am here,” said Moczli, touching the brim of his 
hat, “‘ where shall I drive, sir? ” 

“Just drive where you were told to,” said Lorand, 
“take him for whom you were sent, to her who sent you 
for him.—I am going in another direction.” 

At these words Marton grasped my arm so savagely 
I almost cried out with pain. It was his peculiar 
method of showing his approval. 

“Very good, sir,” said Moczli, without asking any 
further questions, and clambering up onto the box. 

“Stop a moment,” Lorand exclaimed, taking out his 
purse. “Let no one say that you were paid for any 
services you did me with other people’s money.” 

“Wha-at?” roughly grumbled Moczli. “ Pay me? 
Am Ia‘ Hanak fuvaros’ * that someone should pay me 
for helping a‘ juratus’ to escape? That has never hap- 
pened yet.” 

With that he whipped up his horses, and drove out of 
the courtyard. 

“That’s the trump for you,” said Marton, “ that’s 
Moczli. I know Moczli, he’s a sharp fellow, with- 
out him we should never have found our way here. 
Well, sir, and whither now? ” 

This remark was made to Lorand. My brother was 
acquainted with the jesting old fellow, and had often 
heard his humorous anecdotes, when he came to see me. 

“ At all events away from Pressburg, old man.” 

“But which way? I think the best would be over 
the bridge, through the park.” 

“But very many people pass there. Someone might 
recognize me.” 

“Then straight along the Danube, down-stream; by 
morning you will reach the ferry at Muhlau, where 
they will ferry you over for two kreuzers. Have you 
some change? You must always have that. Men on 


’ 


_* A Slavonian coachman who hires out his coach and car- 
Tiages. 


168 Debts of Honor 


foot must always pay in copper, or they will be sus- 
pected. It’s a pity I didn’t know sooner, I could have 
lent you a passport. You might have travelled as a 
baker’s assistant.” 

“T shall travel as a ‘ legatus.’ * ” 

“ That will do finely.” 

Meantime we reached the end of the street. Lorand 
wished to bid us farewell. 

“Oho!” said Marton, “ we shall accompany you to 
the outskirts of the town; we cannot leave you alone 
until you are in a secure place, on the high-road. Do 
you know what? You two go on in advance and I 
shall remain close behind, pretending to be a little 
drunk. Patrols are in the street. If I sing loudly they 
will waste their attention on me, and will not bother 
you. If necessary, I shall pitch into them, and while 
they are running me in, you can go on.. To you, 
Master Lorand, I give my stick for the journey. It’s 
a good, honest stick. I have tramped all over Germany, 
with it. Well, God bless you.” 

The old fellow squeezed Lorand’s hand. 

“T have a mind to say something. But I shall say 
nothing. It is well just as it is—lI shall say nothing. 
God bless you, sir.” 

Therewith the old man dropped back, and began to 
brawl some yodling air in the street, and to thump the 
doors with his fists, in accompaniment, like some 
drunken reveller. 

“ Hai-dia-do.” 

Taking each other’s hand we hastened on. The 
streets were already very dark here. 

At the end of the town are barracks, before which 
we had to pass: the cry of the sentinel sounded in the 
distance. ‘‘ Who goes there? Guard out!” and soon 
behind our backs we heard the squadron of horsemen 
clattering on the pavement. 


* A travelling preacher. A kind of missionary sent out by 


the “ Legatio. 








I and the Demon 169 


Marton did just as he had said. He pitched into 
the guard. Soon we heard a dream-disturbing uproar, 
as he fell into a noisy discussion with the armed 
authorities. 

“Tama citizen! A peaceful, harmless citizen! Fugias 
Mathias (this to us)! Ten glasses of beer are not 
the world! I am a citizen, Fugias Mathias is my 
name! I will pay for every thing. If I have broken 
any bottles I will pay for them. Who says I am shout- 
ing? Iam singing. ‘ Hai-dia-do;’ let any one who 
doesn’t like it try to sing more beautifully himself!” 

We were already outside of the town, and still we 
heard the terrible noise which he made in his self- 
sacrifice for our sakes. 

As we came out into the open, we were both able to 
breathe more freely ; the starry sky is a good shelter. 

The cold, too, compelled us to hasten. We had 
walked a good half-hour among the vineyards, when 
suddenly something occurred to Lorand. 

“How long do you wish to accompany me?” 

“Until day breaks. In this darkness I should not 
dare to return to the town alone.” 

Now he became anxious for me too. What could he 
do with me? Should he let me go home alone at mid- 
night through these clusters of houses in that suburb of 
ill-repute. Or should he take me miles on his way with 
him? From there I should have to return alone in any 
case. 

At that moment a carriage approached rapidly, and 
as it passed before us, somebody leaped down upon us 
from the back seat, and laughing came where we were 
beside the hedge. 

In him we recognized old Marton. 

“T have found you after all,” said the old fellow, 
smiling. “What a fine time I have had. They 
really thought I was drunk. I quarrelled with 
them. That was the ‘ gaude!’ They tugged and pulled, 
and beat my back with the flat of their sabres: it was 
something glorious!” 

“Well, how did you escape?” I asked, not finding 


170 Debts of Honor 


that entertainment to the accompaniment of sabre- 
blows so glorious. 

“When I saw a carriage approaching, I leaped out 
from their midst and climbed up behind:—nor did 
they give me a long chase. I soon got away from 
them.” 

The good old man was quite content with the fine 
amusement which he had procured for himself. 

“ But now we must really say adieu, Master Lorand. 
Don’t go the same way as the carriage went: cut across 
the road here in the hills to the lower road; you can 
breakfast at the first inn you come to: you will reach 
it by dawn. Then go in the direction of the sunrise.” 

We embraced each other. We had to part. And 
who knew for how long? 

Marton was nervous. “Let us go! Let Lorand too 
hurry on Jus way.” 

Why, ten years is a very long way. By that time 
we should be growing old. 

“Love mother in my place. Then remember your 
word of honor.” Lorand whispered these words. 
Then he kissed me and in a few moments had dis- 
appeared from my sight down the lower road among 
the hills. 

Who knew when I should see him again? 

Marton’s laugh awoke me from my reverie. 

“ You know—” he inquired with a voice that showed 
his inclination to laugh—‘ You know ha! ha—you 
know why I told Master Lorand not to go in the same 
direction as the carriage?” 

“e No.” 

“Did you not recognize the coachman? It was 
Moczli.” 

“ Moczli? ” 

“Do you know who was inside the carriage?— 
Guess !—Well, it was Madame.” 

“ Balnokhazy’s wife?” 

“ The same—with that certain actor.” 

“ With whose passport Lorand was to have eloped?” 

“ Well if one is on his way to elope—it is all the 





I and the Demon 17% 


same:—one must have a companion, if not the one, 
then the other.” 

It was alla fable tome. But such a mysterious fable 
that it sent a cold chill all over me. 

“ But where could they go?” 

“Where?—Well, as far as the frontier, perhaps. 
Anyhow, as far as the contents of that bag, which 
Moczli handed into the carriage after her ladyship, will 
last—Hai-dia-do.” 

Now it was really exuberance of spirits that made 
old Marton sing in Tyrolese manner, that refrain, ‘ hai- 
hai-dia-hia-do.” 

He actually danced on the dusty road—a galop. 

Was it possible? That madonna face, than which 
I have never seen a more beautiful, more enchanting— 
either before or since that day! 


CHAPTER XI 
“ PAROLE D HONNEUR” 


Two days after Lorand’s disappearance a travelling 
coach stopped before Mr. Fromm’s house. From the 
window I recognized coach-horses and coachman: it 
was ours. 

Some one of our party had arrived. 

T hastened down into the street, where Father Fromm 
was already trying very excitedly to turn the leather 
curtain that was fastened round the coach 

No, not “some one!” the whole family was here! 
All who had remained at home. Mother, grandmother, 
and the Fromms’ Fanny. 

Actually mother had come: poor mother! 

We had to lift her from the carriage: she was utterly 
broken down. She seemed ten years older than when 
I had last seen her. 

When she had descended, she leaned upon Fanny on 
the one side, on the other upon me. 

“Only let us go in, into the house!” grandmother 
urged us on, convinced that poor mother would collapse 
in the street. 

All who had arrived were very quiet: they scarcely 
answered me, when I greeted them. We led mother up 
into the room, where we had had our first reception. 

Mother Fromm and grandmother Fromm were not 
knitting stockings on this occasion ; it seemed they were 
prepared for this appearance. They too received my 
parents very quietly and solemnly: as if everyone were 
convinced that the first word addressed by anyone to 
this broken-down, propped up figure would immedi- 
ately reduce it to ashes, as the story goes about some 


172 


I 
= 








Parole d’Honneur 173 


figures they have found in old tombs. And yet she had 
come on this long, long journey. She had not waited 
for the weather to grow warmer. She had started in 
the teeth of a raw, freezing spring wind, when she 
heard that Lorand was gone. 

Oh, is there any plummet to sound the depths of a 
mother’s love? 

Poor mother did try so hard to appear strong. It 
was so evident, that she was struggling to combat with 
her nervous attacks, just in the very moment which 
awoke every memory before her mind. 

“ Quietly, my daughter—quietly,” said grandmother. 
“You know what you promised: you promised to be 
strong. You know there is need of strength. Don’t 
give yourself over. Sit down.” 

Mother sat down near the table where they led 
her, then let her head fall on her two arms, and, as 
she had promised not to weep—she did not weep. 

It was piteous to see her sorrowful figure as, in this 
strange house, she was leaning over the table with her 
face buried in her hands in mute despair; determined, 
however, not to cry, for so she had promised. 

Everyone kept at a distance from her: great sorrow 
commands great respect. Only one person ventured to 
remain close to her, one of whom I had not even taken 
notice as yet—Fanny. 

When she had taken off her travelling cloak I found 
she was dressed entirely in blue. Once that had been 
my mother’s favorite color; father too had been 
exceedingly fond of it. She stood at mother’s side and 
whispered something into her ear, at which mother 
raised her head and, like one who returns from the other 
world, sighed deeply, seemed to come to herself, and 
said with a peaceful smile, turning to the host and 
hostess : 

“ Pardon me, I was exceedingly abstracted.” Merely 
to hear her speak agonized me greatly. Then she 
turned to Fanny, embraced her, kissed her forehead 
twice, and said to the Fromms, 

“You will agree, will you not, to Fanny’s staying a 


174 Debts of Honor 


little longer with me? She is already like a child of my 
own.” 

I was no longer jealous of Fanny. I saw how happy 
she made mother, if she could embrace her. 

Fanny again whispered something in mother’s ear, at 
which mother rose, and seemed quite herself again: 
she approached Mrs. Fromm resolutely, with no falter- 
ing steps, and grasping both her hands, said, “ I thank 
you,” and once again repeated whisperingly, “I thank 
you.” 

All this I regarded speechlessly from a corner. I 
feared my mother’s gaze inexpressibly. 

Then grandmother interrupted, 

“We have no time to lose, my daughter. If you are 
capable of coming at once, come.” 

Mother nodded assent with her head, and gazed con- 
tinually upon Fanny. 

“Meanwhile Fanny remains here,” added grand- 
mother. “ But Desiderius comes with us.” 

At these words mother looked at me, as if it had 
only just occurred to her that I too was here, still it was 
Fanny’s fair curls only that she continued stroking. 

Father Fromm hurriedly sent Henrik fora cab. Not 
a soul asked us where we were going. Everyone won- 
dered, where, and why? What purpose? But, only I 
knew what would be the end of to-day’s journey. 

I did not distress myself about it. I waited merely 
until my turn should come. I knew nothing could hap- 
pen without me. 

The cab was there, and the Fromms led mother down 
the steps. They set her down first of all, and, when we 
were all seated, Father Fromm called to the cabman: 

“To the house of Balnokhazy!” 

He knew well that we must go there now. During 
the whole journey there we did not exchange a single 
word: what could those two have said to me? 

When we stopped before Balnokhazy’s residence, it 
seemed to me, my mother was endowed with a quite 
youthful strength; she went before us, her face burn- 
ing, her step elastic, her head carried on high. 


Parole d’ Honneur 175 


I don’t know whether it was our good fortune, or 
whether my parents’ arrival had been announced pre- 
viously, but the P. C. was at home, when we came to 
look for him. 

I was curious to see with what countenance he would 
receive us. 

I knew already much about him, that I ought never 
to have known. 

As we stepped into his room, he came to meet us, 
with more courtesy than pleasure apparent on his coun- 
tenance. Some kind of displeasure strove to display it- 
self thereon, but it was just as if he had studied the 
expression for hours in the mirror; it seemed to be an 
artificial, affected, calculated dispeasure. 

Mother straightway hastened to him, and taking both 
his hands, impetuously introduced the conversation with 
these words: 

“Where is my son Lorand?” 

My right honorable uncle shrugged his shoulders, 
and with gracious mien answered this mother’s passion- 
ate outburst: 

“ My dear lady cousin, it is I who ought to urge that 
question ; for it is my duty to prosecute your son. And 
if I answer that I do not know where he is, I think 
thereby I shall display the most kinsmanlike feeling.” 

“ Why prosecute my son?” said mother, tremblingly. 
“Ts it possible to eternally ruin anyone for a mere 
schoolboy escapade?” 

“ Not one but many ‘ schoolboy escapades * justify me 
in my action: it is not merely in my official capacity that 
I am bound to prosecute him.” 

As he said this, Balnckhazy fixed his eyes sharply 
upon me: I did not wince before him. I knew I had 
the right and the power to withstand his gaze. Soon 
my turn would come. 

“ What?” asked mother. “ What reason could you 
have to prosecute him?” 

Balnokhazy shrugged his shoulders more than ever, 
bitterly smiling. 

“ T scarcely know, in truth, how to tell you this story, 


176 Debts of Honor 


if you don’t know already. I thought you were ace 
quainted with all the facts. He who told you the news 
of the young man’s disappearance, wrote to you also the 
reasons for it.” 

“Yes,” said mother, “I know all. The misfortune 
is great: but there is no ignominy.” 

“Indeed?” interrupted Balnokhazy, drawing his 
shoulders derisively together: “I did not know that 
such conduct was not considered ignominious in the 
provinces. Indeed I did not. A young man, a law 
student, a mere stripling, shows his gratitude for the 
fatherly thoughtfulness of a man of position,—who had 
received him into his house as a kinsman, treating him 
as one of the family,—by seducing and eloping with his 
wife, and helping her to break open his money-chest, 
and steal his jewelry, disappearing with the shameless 
woman beyond the confines of the country. Oh, really, 
I did not know that they did not consider that a crime 
deserving of prosecution!” 

Poor mother was shattered at this double accusation, 
as if she had been twice struck by thunder-bolts, and 
deadly pale clutched at grandmother’s hand. The latter 
had herself in this moment grown as white as her griz- 
zled hair. She took up the conversation in mother’s 
place, for mother was no longer capable of speaking. 

“What do you say? Lorand a seducer of women?” 

“To my sorrow, he is. He has eloped with my 
wife.” 

“ And thief? ” 

“A harsh word, but I can give him no other name.” 

“For God’s sake, gently, sir!” 

“Well, you can see that hitherto I have behaved very 
quietly. JI have not even made a noise about my loss: 
yet, besides the destruction of my honor, I have other 
losses. 

“ This faithless deed has robbed me and my daughter 
of 5,000 florins.* If the matter only touched me, I 


* Above £415—$2,000. 


Parole d’Honneur Ly 


would disdain to notice it: but that sum was the sav- 
ings of my little daughter.” 

“Sir, that sum shall be repaid you,” said grand- 
mother, ‘‘ but | beg you not to say another word on the 
subject before this lady. You can see you are killing 
her with it.” 

As she was speaking, Balnokhazy gazed intently at 
me, and in his gaze were many questions, all of which 
I could very well have answered. 

“Tl am surprised,” he said at last, “ that these revela- 
tions are entirely new to you. I thought that the same 
person who had acquainted you with Lorand’s disap- 
pearance, had unfolded to you therewith all those crit- 
ical circumstances, which caused his disappearance, see- 
ing that I related all myself to that person.” 

Now mother and grandmother too turned their gaze 
upon me. 

Grandmother addressed me: “ You did not write a 
word about all this to us.” 

a No.” 

“ Nor did you mention a word about it here when we 
arrived.” 

“ Yet I told it all myself to my nephew.” 

“ Why don’t you answer?” queried my grandmother 
impetuously. 

Mother could not speak: she merely wrung her 
hands. 

“ Because I had certain information that this accusa- 
tion was groundless.” 

“Oho! you young imp!” exclaimed Balnokhazy in 
proud, haughty tones. 

“From beginning to end groundless,” I repeated 
calmly; although every muscle of mine was trembling 
from excitement. But you should have seen, how 
mother and grandmother rushed into my arms: how 
they grasped one my right, the other my left hand, as 
drowning men clutch at the rescuer’s hands, and how 
that proud angry man stood before me with flashing 
eyes. All sobriety had left the three, together they 
cried to me in voices of impetuousity, of anger, of mad- 


178 Debts of Honor 


ness, of hope, of joy: “speak! tell us what you 
know.” 

“T will tell you—When his lordship acquainted me 
with these two terrible charges against Lorand, I at 
once started off to find my brother. Two honorable 
poor men came in my way to help me find him: two 
poor workmen, who left their work to help me to save a 
lost life. The same will be my witness that what I re- 
late is all true and happened just as I tell you: one is 
Marton Braun, the baker’s man, the other Matthias 
Fleck.” 

“My wife’s coachman,” interrupted the P. C. 

“Yes. He conducted me to where Lorand was tem- 
porarily concealed. He related to me that her ladyship 
was elsewhere. He had taken her ladyship across the 
frontier—without Lorand. My brother started at the 
same time on foot, without money, towards the in- 
terior of Hungary: Marton and I accompanied him into 
the hills, and my pocket money, which he accepted from 
me, was the only money he had with him, and Marton’s 
walking stick was the only travelling companion that 
accompanied him further.” 

I noticed that mother kneeled beside me and kissed 
me. 

That kiss I received for Lorand’s sake. 

“Tt is not true!” yelled Balnokhazy; “he disap- 
peared with my wife. I have certain information that 
this woman passed the frontier with a young smooth- 
faced man and arrived with him in Vienna. That was 
Lorand.” 

“Tt was not Lorand, but another.” 

“Who could it have been? ” 

“Ts it possible that you should not know? Well, I 
can tell you. That smoothed-faced man who accom- 
panied her ladyship to Vienna was the German actor 
Bleissberg ;—and not for the first time.” 

Ha, ha! I had stabbed him to the heart: right to the 
middle of the liver, where pride dwells. I had thrust 
such a dart into him, as he would never be able to draw 
out. I did not care if he slew me now. 

And he looked as if he felt very much like doing it— 


& 





Parole d’ Honneur 179 


but who would have dared touch me and face the wrath 
of those two women—no—lionesses, standing next to 
me on either side! They seemed ready to tear anyone 
to pieces who ventured as much as lay a finger on 
me. 

“Let us go,” said mother, pressing my hand. “ We 
have nothing more to do here.’—Mother passed out 
first: they took me in the middle and grandmother, 
turning back addressed a categorical “ adieu” to Bal- 
nokhazy, whom we left to himself. 

My cousin Melanie was playing that cavatina even 
now, though now I did not care to stop and listen to it. 
That piano was a good idea after all; quarrels and dis- 
putes in the house were prevented thereby from being 
heard in the street. 

When we were again seated in the cab, mother 
pressed me passionately to her, and smothered me with 
kisses. 

Oh, how I feared her kisses! She kissed me because 
she would soon ask questions about Lorand. And I 
could not answer them. 

“You were obedient: you took care of your poor 
brother: you helped him: my dear child.” Thus she 
kept whispering continually to me. 

I dared not be affected. 

“ Tell me now, where is Lorand? ” 

I had known she would ask that. In anguish I 
drew away from her and kept looking around me. 

“ Where is Lorand? ” 

Grandmother remarked my anguish. 

“Leave him alone,’ she hinted to mother. ‘ We 
are not yet in a sufficiently safe place: the driver might 
hear. Wait until we get home.” 

So I had time until we arrived home. What would 
happen there? How could I avoid answering their 
questions. 

Scarcely had we returned to Master Fromm’s house, 
scarce had Fanny brought us into a room which had 
been prepared for my parents, when my poor mother 
again fell upon my neck, and with melancholy glad 
ness asked me: 


180 Debts of Honor 


“You know where Lorand is?”’ 

How easy it would have been for me to answer “T 
know not!” But what should I have gained thereby? 
Had I done so, I could never have told her what Lor- 
and wrote from a distance, how he greeted and kissed 
them a thousand times! 

“T know, mother dear. 

“Tell me quickly, where he is.” 

“He is in a safe place, mother dear,” said I encour- 
agingly, and hastened to tell all I might relate. 

“ Lorand is in his native land in a safe place, where 
he has nothing to fear: with a relation of ours, who will 
love and protect him.” 

“ But when will you tell us where he is?” 

“One day, soon, mother dear.” 

“ But when? When? Why not at once? When?” 

“ Soon,—in ten years.’”—I could scarce utter the 
words. 

Both were horrified at my utterance. 

“ Desi, do you wish to play some joke upon us?” 

“Tf it were only a joke? It is true: a very heavy 
truth! I promised Lorand to tell neither mother nor 
grandmother, for ten years, where he is living.” 

Grandmother seemed to understand it all: she hinted 
with a look to Fanny to leave us alone: she thought that 
I did not wish to reveal it before Fanny. 

“Don’t go Fanny,” I said to her. “Even in your 
absence I cannot say more than I have already 
said.” 

“Are you in your senses then? ” grandmother sternly 
addressed me thinking harsh words might do much 
with me. “Do you wish to play mysteries with 
us: surely you don’t think we shall betray him?” 

“Desi,” said mother, in that quiet, sweet voice of 
hers. “ Be good.” 

So, they were deceived in me. I was no longer that 
good child, who could be frightened by strong words, 
and tamed by a sweet tongue,—I had become a hard, 
cruel unfeeling boy :—they could not force me to con- 
fession. 

“ That I cannot tell you.” 





Parole d’Honuenr 181 


“Why not? Not even to us?” they asked both to- 
gether. 

“Why not? That I do not know myself. But not 
even to you can I tell it. Lorand made me give him 
my word of honor, not to betray his whereabouts—not 
to his mother and grandmother. He said he had a 
great reason to ask this, and said any neglect of my 
promise would produce great misfortune. I gave him 
my word, and that word I must keep.” 

Poor mother fell on her knees before me, embraced 
me, showered kisses upon me, and begged me so to tell 
her where Lorand was. She called me her dear “ only ” 
son: then burst into tears: and I,—could be so cruel 
as to answer to her every word, “ No—no—no.” 

I cannot describe this scene. I am incapable of re- 
flecting thereupon. At last mother fainted, grand- 
mother cursed me, and I left the room, and leaned 
against the door post. 

During this indescribable scene the whole household 
hastened to nurse my mother, who was suffering terri- 
ble pain; then they came to me one by one, and tried in 
turn their powers of persuasion upon me. First of all 
came Mother Fromm, to beg me very kindly to say that 
one word that would cure my mother at once; then came 
Grandmother Fromm with awful threats: then Father 
Fromm, who endeavored to persuade me with sage rea- 
soning, declaring that my honor would really be 
greatest if 1 should now break my word! 

It was all quite useless. Surely no one knew how 
to beg, as my mother begged kneeling before me! No 
one could curse as my terrible grandmother had done, 
and no one knew the wickedness of my character as 
well as I did myself. 

Let them only give me peace! I could not tell them. 

Last of all Fanny came to me: leaned upon my shoul- 
der, and began to stroke my hair. 

“ Dear Desi.” 

I jerked my shoulder to be rid of her. 

“* Dear Desi,’ indeed !—Call me ‘ wicked, bad, cursed 
Desi! ’—that is what I am.” 

“ But why?” 


182 Debts of Honor 


“ Because no other name is possible. I promised be- 
cause I was obliged to promise: and now I am keeping 
my word, because I promised.” 

“Your poor mother says she will die, if you do not 
tell her where Lorand is.” 

‘““ And Lorand told me he will die if I do tell her. He 
told me that, when I discovered his whereabouts to 
mother or grandmother, he will either report himself 
at the nearest military station, or will shoot himself, 
according as he feels inclined. And in our family such 
promises are not wont to dissolve in thin air.” 

‘“‘ What might have been his reason for exacting such 
a promise from you?” 

“T do not know. But I know he would not have 
done it without cause. I beg you to leave me.” 

“ Wait a moment,” said Fanny, standing before me. 
“You said Lorand made you swear not to tell your 
mother or grandmother where he had gone to. He did 
not forbid you to tell another?” 

“Naturally not,” I answered with irritated pride. 
“ He knew all along that there has not yet been born 
into the world that other who could force the truth out 
of me with red-hot pincers.” 

“ But that other has been born,” interrupted Fanny 
with wild earnestness. “ Just twelve years, eight 
months and five days ago.” 

I looked at her. 

“T should tell you? is that what you think?” 

I admired her audacity. 

“Certainly, me. For your parole forbids you to 
speak only to your mother and grandmother. You can 
tell me: and I shall tell them. You will not have told 
anybody anything, and they still will know it.” 

“Well, and are you ‘ nobody?’ ” 

Fanny gazed into my eyes, became serious, and with 
trembling lips said: 

“Tf you wish it—I am nobody. As if I had never 
been born.” 

From that moment Fanny began to be “ someone,” 
in my eyes. 


Parole d’ Honneur 183 


Her little sophism pleased me. Perhaps on these 
terms we might come to an agreement. 

“You have asked something very difficult of me, 
Fanny ; but it is not impossible. Only you must wait a 
little: give me time to think it over. Until I have done 
so, be our go-between. Go in and tell grandmother 
what you have recommended to me, and that | said in 
answer, ‘it is well.’ ” 

I was cunning. I was dissembling. I thought in 
that moment, that, if Fanny should burst in childish 
glee into the neighboring room, and in triumphant 
voice proclaim the concession she had wrung out of 
me, I might tell her on her return the name of some 
place that did not exist, and so throw the responsibility 
off my own shoulders. 

But she did not do that. 

She went back quietly, and waited long, until her 
friends had retired by the opposite door: then she came 
and whispered :— 

“T have been long: but I did not wish to speak before 
my mother. Now your parents are alone: go and 
speak.” 

“Something more first. Go back, Fanny, and say 
that I can tell them the truth, only on the condition that 
mother and grandmother promise not to seek 
him out, until I show them a letter from Lorand, 
in which he invites them to come to him: nor to send 
others in search of him: and, if they wish to send a 
letter to him, they must first give it to me, that I may 
send it off to him, and they never show, even by a look, 
to anyone that they know aught of Lorand’s where- 
abouts.” 

Fanny nodded assent, and returned into the neigh- 
boring room. 

A few minutes later she came out again, and held 
open the door before me. 

“ Come in.” 

I went in. She shut the door after me, and then, tak- 
ing my hand, led me to mother’s bedside. 

Poor dear mother was now quiet, and pale as death. 


184 Debts of Honor 


She seemed to beckon me to her with her eyes. I went 
to her side, and kissed her hand. 

Fanny bent over me, and held her face near my lips, 
that I might whisper in her ear what I knew. 

I told her all in a few words. She then bent over 
mother’s pillow and whispered in her ear what she had 
heard from me. 

Mother sighed and seemed to be calmed. Then 
grandmother bent over dear mother, that she might 
learn from her all that had been said. 

As she heard it, her grey-headed figure straightened, 
and clasping her two hands above her head, she panted 
in wild prophetic ecstasy : 

“© Lord God! who entrustest Thy will to children: 
may it come to pass, as Thou hast ordained!” 

Then she came to me and embraced me. 

“ Did you counsel Lorand to go there?” 

“did.” 

“Did you know what you were doing? It was the 
will of God. Every day you must pray now for your 
brother.” 

“ And you must keep silent for him. For when he 
is discovered, my brother will die and I cannot live 
without him.” 

The storm became calm: they again made peace with 
me. Mother, some minutes later, fell asleep, and slum- 
bered sweetly. Grandmother motioned to Fanny and 
to me to leave her to herself. 

We let down the window-blinds and left the room. 

As we stepped out, I said to Fanny: 

“Remember, my honor has been put into your 
hands.” 

The girl gazed into my eyes with ardent enthusiasm 
and said: 

“T shall guard it as I guard mine own.” 

That was no child’s answer, but the answer of a 
maiden. 





CHAPTER XII 
A GLANCE INTO A PISTOL-BARREL 


THE weather changed very rapidly, for all the world 
as if two evil demons were fighting for the earth: one 
with fire, the other with ice. It was the middle of 
May; it had become so sultry that the earth, which last 
week had been frozen to dry bones, now began to crack. 

The wanderer who disappeared from our sight we 
shall find on that plain of Lower Hungary, where there 
are as many high roads as cart-ruts. 

It is evening, but the sun had just set, and left a 
cloudless ruddy sky behind it. On the horizon two or 
three towers are to be seen so far distant that the 
traveller who is hurrying before us cannot hope to 
reach any one of them by nightfall. 

The dust had not so overlaid him, nor had the sun 
so tanned his face that we cannot recognize in these 
handsome noble features the pride of the youth of 
Pressburg, Lorand. 

The long journey he has accomplished has evidently 
not impaired the strength of his muscles, for the horse- 
man who is coming behind him, has to ride hard to 
overtake him. 

The latter leaned back in his shortened stirrups, after 
the manner of hussars, and wore a silver-buttoned 
jacket, a greasy hat, and ragged red trousers. Thrown 
half over his shoulders was a garment of wolf-skins; 
around his waist was a wide belt from which two pistol- 
barrels gleamed, while in the leg of one of his boots a 
silver-chased knife was thrust. The horse’s harness 
was glittering with silver, just as the ragged, stained 
garments of its master. 

The rider approached at a trot, but the traveller had 


185 


186 Debts of Honor 


not yet thought it worth while to look back and see who 
was coming after him. Presently he came up to the 
solitary figure, trudging along, doggedly. 

“ Good evening, student.” 

Lorand looked up at him. 

“ Good evening, gypsy.” 

At these words the horseman drew aside his skin- 
mantle that the student might see the pistol-barrels, and 
consider that even if he were a gypsy, he was something 
more than a mere musician. But Lorand did not be- 
tray the slightest emotion: he did not even take down 
from his shoulder the stick, on which he was carrying 
his boots. He was walking bare-footed. It was 
cheaper. 

“Oh, you are proud of your red boots!” sneered the 
rider, looking down at Lorand’s bare-feet. 

“It’s easy for you to say so,” was Lorand’s sharp 
reply; “ sitting on that hack.” 

But “hack” means a kind of four-footed animal 
which this rider found no pleasure in hearing men- 
tioned.* 

“ My own training,” he said proudly, as if in self- 
defence against this cutting remark. 

“T know. I knew that even in my scapegrace days.” 

“Well, and where are you hobbling to now, stu- 
dent?” 

“T am going to Csege, gypsy, to preach.” 

“What do you get from the ‘ legatio’ for that, stu- 
dent?” 

“ Twenty silver florins, gypsy.” 

“Do you know what, student? I have an idea— 
don’t go just yet to Csege, but turn aside here to the 
shepherd’s where you see that fold. Wait there for me 
till to-morrow, when I shall come back, and preach your 
sermon to me: I have never yet heard anything of the 
kind, and Ill give you forty florins for it.” 


*The Magyar word has a double meaning ; besides a 
horse it means a peculiar whipping-bench with which gypsies 
used to be particularly well acquainted. 


A Glance Into a Pistol Barrel 187 


“Oh no, gypsy; do you turn aside to yonder fold. 
Don’t go just now to the farm, but wait a week for me; 
when I shall come back; then you can fiddle my fa- 
vorite tune, and I'll give you ten florins for it.” 

“ Tam no musician,” replied the horseman, extending 
his chest. 

“ What’s that rural fife doing at your side?” The 
gypsy roared at the idea of calling his musket a “ rural 
fife!’’ Many had paid dearly so as not to hear its 
notes ! 

“You student, you are a deuce of a fellow. Take a 
draught from my ‘ noggin.’ ”’ 

“ No, thanks, gypsy; it isn’t spiritual enough to go 
with my sermon.” * 

The gypsy laughed still more loudly. 

“Well, good night, student.” 

He drove his spurs into his horse and galloped on 
along the high-road. 

Then the evening drew in quietly. Lorand reached 
a grassy mound, shaded by juniper bushes. This spot 
he chose for his night-camp in preference to the wine- 
reeking, stenching rooms of the way-side inns. Putting 
on his boots, he drew from his wallet some bread and 
bacon, and commenced eating. He found it good: he 
was hungry and young. 

Searcely had he finished his repast when, along the 
same road on which the horseman had come, rapidly 
approached a five-in-hand. The three leaders were 
supplied with bells and their approach could be heard 
from afar off. 

Lorand called out to the coachman, 

‘Stop a moment, fellow-countryman.” 


* Lorand really quoted a sentence from a popular ditty, but 
it ‘e impossible in such cases to do proper justice to the origi- 
nal. 

The whole passage between Lorand and the gypsy is full of 
allusions intelligible only to Hungarians, in Hungarian, a 
proper rendering of which, in my opinion, baffles all attempts. 
a course the force of the original is lost, but it is unavoid- 
able. 


188 Debts of Honor 


The coachman pulled up his horses. 

“ Quickly,” he said to Lorand, with a hoarse voice, 
“ get up at once, sir ‘ legatus,’ beside me. The horses 
will not stand.” 

‘“‘ That was not what I wanted to say,” remarked Lor- 
and. “I did not want to ask you to take me up, but 
to tell you to be on your guard, for a highwayman has 
just gone on in front, and it would be ill to meet with 
him.” 

“ Have you much money?” 

“ce No.” 

“Nor have I. Then why should we fear the rob- 
ber?” 

“ Perhaps those who are sitting inside the carriage? ” 

“Her ladyship is sitting within and is now asleep. 
If I awake her and frighten her, and then we don’t find 
the highwayman she will break the whip over my back. 
Get up here. It will be good to travel as far as Lank- 
adomb in a carriage, ‘ sblood.’” 

“Do you live at Lankadomb?” asked Lorand in a 
tone of surprise. 

“Yes. Iam Topandy’s servant. He is a very fine 
fellow, and is very fond of people who preach.” 

“T know him by reputation.” 

“ Well, if you know him by reputation, you will do 
well to make his personal acquaintance, too. Get up, 
now.” 

Lorand put the meeting down as a lucky chance. 
Topandy’s weakness was to capture men of a priestly 
turn of mind, keep them at his house and annoy them. 
That was just what he wanted, a pretext for meeting 
him. 

He clambered up beside the coachman and under the 
brilliance of the starry heaven, the five steeds, with 
merry tinkling of bells, rattled the carriage along the 
turfy road. 

The coachman told him they had come from Debre- 
czen: they wished to reach Lankadomb in the morning, 
but on the way they would pass an inn, where the horses 


A Glance Into a Pistol Barrel 189 


would receive feed, while her ladyship would have some 
cold lunch: and then they would proceed on their jour- 
ney. Her ladyship always loved to travel by night, for 
then it was not so hot: besides she was not afraid of 
anything. 

It was about midnight when the carriage drew up 
at the inn mentioned. 

Lorand leaped down from the box, and hastened first 
into the inn, not wishing to meet the lady who was 
within the carriage. His heart beat loudly, when he 
caught a glimpse of that silver-harnessed horse in the 
inn-yard, saddled and bridled. The steed was not 
fastened up, but quite loose, and it gave a peculiar neigh 
as the coach arrived, at which there stepped out from a 
dark door the same man whom Lorand had met on the 
plain. 

He was utterly astonished to see Lorand. 

“You are here already, student?” 

“You can see it with your own eyes, gypsy.” 

“ How did you come so quickly?” 

“Why, I ride on a dragon: I am a necromancer.” 

By this time the occupants of the carriage had en- 
tered: her ladyship and a plump, red-faced maid-serv- 
ant. The former was wrapped in a thick fur cloak, her 
head bound with a silken kerchief; the latter wore a 
short red mantle, fastened round her neck with a ker- 
chief of many colors, while her hair was tied with 
ribbons. Her two hands were full of cold viands. 

“ So that was it, eh?” said the rider, as he perceived 
them. “ They brought you in their carriage.” Then 
he allowed the new-comers to enter the parlor peace- 
fully, while he himself took his horse, and, leading it to 
the pump, pumped some water into the trough. 

Lorand began to think he was not the rascal he 
thought him, and he now proceeded into the parlor. 

Her ladyship threw back her fur cloak, took off the 
silken kerchief and put two candles before her. She 
trimmed them both, like one who “ loves the beautiful.” 

You might have called her face very beautiful: she 
had lively, sparkling eyes, strong brown complexion, 


1g0 Debts of Honor 


rosy lips, and arched eyebrows: it was right that such 
light as there was in the room should burn before her. 

In the darkness, on the long bench at the other end of 
the table, sat Lorand, who had ordered a bottle of wine, 
rather to avoid sitting there for nothing, than to drink 
the sour vintage of the Lowland. 

Beside the bar, on a straw mattress, was sleeping a 
Slavonian pedler of holy images, and a wandering 
jack-of-all-trades; at the bar the bushy-headed host 
grinned with doubtful pleasure over such guests, who 
brought their own eatables and drinkables with them, 
and only came to show their importance. 

Lorand had time enough calmly to take in this “ lady- 
ship,” in whose carriage he had come so far, and under 
whose roof he would probably live later. 

She must be a lively, good-natured creature. She 
shared every morsel with her servant, and sent what re- 
mained to the coachman. Perhaps if she had known 
she had another nameless travelling companion, she 
would have invited him to the repast. As she ate she 
poured some rye-whiskey into her tin plate; to this she 
added figs, raisins and sugar, and then lighted it. This 
beverage is called in our country “ krampampuli.” It 
must be very healthy on a night journey for a healthy 
stomach. 

When the repast was over, the door leading to the 
courtyard opened: and there entered the rogue who had 
been left outside, his hat pressed over his eyes, and in 
his hand one of his pistols that he had taken from his 
girdle. 

“Under the table! under the bed! all whose lives are 
dear to them!” he cried, standing in the doorway. At 
these terrible words the Slavonian and the other who 
were sleeping on the floor clambered up into the chim- 
ney-place, the host disappeared into the cellar, banging 
the door after him, while the servant hid herself under 
the bench; then the robber stepped up to the table and 
extinguished both candles with his hat, so that there re- 
mained no light on the table save that of the burning 
spirit. 





A Glance Into a Pistol Barrel gt 


The latter gave a weird light. When sugar burns in 
spirits, a sepulchral light appears on everything: 
living faces look like faces of the dead; all color dis- 
appears from them, the ruddiness of the countenance, 
the brilliance of the lips, the glitter of the eyes,—all 
turn green. It is as if phantoms rose from the 
grave and were gazing at one another. 

Lorand watched the scene in horror. 

This gay, smiling woman’s face became at once like 
that of one raised from the tomb; and that other who 
stood face to face with her, weapon in hand, was like 
Death himself, with black beard and black eyelids. 

Yet for one moment it seemed to Lorand as if both 
were laughing—the face of the dead and the face of 
Death, but it was only for a moment; and perhaps, too, 
that was merely an illusion. 

Then the robber addressed her in a strong, authori- 
tative voice: 

“Your money, quickly!” 

The woman took her purse, and without a word 
threw it down on the table before him. 

The robber snatched it up and by the light of the 
spirit began to examine its contents. 

“What is this?’ he asked wrathfully. 

“ Money,” replied the lady briefly, beginning to make 
a tooth-pick from a chicken bone with her silver-han- 
dled antique knife. 

“Money! But how much?” bawled the thief. 

“ Four hundred florins.” 

“Four hundred florins,’ he shrieked, casting the 
purse down on the table. ‘“ Did I come here for four 
hundred florins? Have I been lounging about here a 
week for four hundred florins? Where is the rest?” 

“ The rest?” said the lady. ‘“ Oh, that is being made 
at Vienna.” 

“No joking, now. I know there were two thousand 
florins in this purse.” 

“Tf all that has ever been in that purse were here 
now, it would be enough for both of us.” 

“The devil take you!” cried the thief, beating the 


192 Debts of Honor 


table with his fist so that the spirit flame flickered in the 
plate. “I don’t understand jokes. In this purse just 
now there were two thousand florins, the price of the 
wool you sold day before yesterday at Debreczen. 
What has become of the rest?” 

“Come here, I’ll give you an account of it,” said the 
lady, counting on her fingers with the point of the knife. 
“ Two hundred I gave to the furrier—four hundred to 
the saddler—three hundred to the grocer—three hun- 
dred to the tailor:—two hundred I spent in the market: 
count how much remains.” 

“None of your arithmetic for me. I only want 
money, much money! Where is much money?” 

“ As I said already, at K6rm6cz, in the mint.” 

“ Enough of your foolery!”’ threatened the highway- 
man. “For if I begin to search, you won’t thank me 
fori.” 

“ Well, search the carriage over; all you find in it is 

ours.” 

“T shan’t search the coach, but you, too, to your 
skin.” 

“What?” cried the woman, in a passion; and at 
that moment her face, with her knitted eyebrows, be- 
came like that of a mythical Fury. “ Try it,”’—with 
these words dashing the knife down into the table, 
which it pierced to the depth of an inch. 

The thief began to speak in a less presumptuous 
tone. 

“ What else will you give me?” 

“ What else, indeed? ” said the lady, throwing herself 
defiantly back in her chair. “ The devil and his son.” 

“You have a bracelet on your arm.” 

“There you are!” said the woman, unclasping the 
emerald trinket from her arm, and dashing it on the 
table. 

The thief began to look at it critically. 

“What is it worth?” 

“T received it as a present: you can get a drink of 
wine for it in the nearest inn you reach.” 


A Glance Into a Pistol Barrel 193 


“And there is a beautiful ring sparkling on your 
finger.” 

“ Let it sparkle.” 

“IT don’t believe it cannot come off.” 

“Tt will not come off, for I shall not give it.”” At this 
moment the thief suddenly grasped the woman’s hand 
in which she held the knife, seizing it by the wrist, and 
while she was writhing in desperate struggle against 
the iron grip, with his other hand thrust the end of his 
pistol in her mouth. 

This awful scene had till now made upon Lorand the 
impression of the quarrel of a tipsy husband with his 
_ obstinate wife, who answers all his provocations with 
jesting: the lady seemed incapable of being frightened, 
the thief of frightening. Some unnatural indifference 
seemed to give the lie to that scene, which youthful 
imagination would picture so differently. The meeting 
of a thief with an unprotected lady, at night, in an inn 
on the plain! It was impossible that they should speak 
so to one another. 

But as the robber seized the lady’s hand, and leaning 
across the table, drew her by sheer force towards him, 
continually threatening the screaming woman with a 
pistol, the young man’s blood suddenly boiled up within 
him. He leaped forward from the darkness, unnoticed 
by the thief, crept toward him and seized the rascal’s 
right hand, in which he held the pistol, while with his 
other hand he tore the second pistol from the man’s belt. 

The highwayman, like some infuriated beast, turned 
upon his assailant, and strove to free his arm from the 
other’s grip. 

He felt he had to do with one whose wrist was as firm 
as his own. 

“Student!” he snarled, with lips tightly drawn like 
a wolf, and gnashing his gleaming white teeth. 

“ Don’t stir,” said Lorand, pointing the pistol at his 
forehead. 

The thief saw plainly that the pistol was not cocked: 
nor could Lorand have cocked it in this short time. 


194 Debts of Honor 


Lorand, as a matter of fact, in his excitement had not 
thought of it. 

So the highwayman suddenly ducked his head and 
like a wall-breaking, battering ram, dealt such a blow 
with his head to Lorand, that the latter fell back on to 
the bench, and while he was forced to let go of the 
rascal with his left, he was obliged with his armed right 
hand to defend himself against the coming attack. 

Then the robber pointed the barrel of the second pis- 
tol at his forehead. 

“ Now it is my turn to say, ‘don’t stir,’ student.” 

In that short moment, as Lorand gazed into the bar- 
rel of the pistol that was levelled at his forehead, 
there flashed through his mind this thought: 

“ Now is the moment for checkmating the curse of 
fate and avoiding the threatened suicide. He who 
loses his life in the defence of persecuted and defence- 
less travellers dies as a man of honor. Let us see this 
death.” 

He rose suddenly before the levelled weapon. 

“ Don’t move or you are a dead man,” the thief cried 
again to him. 

But Lorand, face to face with the pistol levelled 
within a foot of his head calmly put his finger to the 
trigger of the weapon he himself held and drew it back. 

At this the thief suddenly sprang back and rushed to 
the door, so alarmed that at first he attempted to open 
it the wrong way. 

Lorand took careful aim at him. 

But as he stretched out his arm, the lady sprang up 
from the table, crept to him and seized his arm, shriek- 
ing: 

“Don’t kill him, oh, don’t!” 

Lorand gazed at her in astonishment. 

The beautiful woman’s face was convulsed in a tor- 
ture of terror: the staring look in her beautiful eyes 
benumbed the young man’s sinews. As she threw her- 
self upon his bosom and held down his arms, the em- 
brace quite crippled him. 

The highwayman, seeing he could escape, after much 


A Glance Into a Pistol Barrel 195 


fumbling undid the bolt of the door. When he was at 
last able to open it, his gypsy humor returned to take 
the place of his fear. He thrust his dishevelled head in 
at the half-opened door, and remarked in that broken 
voice which is peculiarly that of the terrified man: 

“A plague upon you, you devil’s cur of a student: 
student, inky-fingered student. Had my pistol been 
loaded, as the other was, which was in your hand, I 
would have just given you a pass to hell. Just fall into 
my hands again! I know that... .” 

Then he suddenly withdrew his head, affording a 
very humorous illustration to his threat: and like one 
pursued he ran out into the court. A few moments 
later a clatter of hoofs was heard—the robber was mak- 
ing his escape. When he reached the road he began to 
swear godlessly, reproaching and cursing every student, 
legatus, and hound of a priest, who, instead of praising 
God at home, prowled about the high-roads, and spoiled 
a hard working man’s business. Even after he was far 
down the road his loud cursing could still be heard. 
For weeks that swearing would fill the air in the bog 
of Lankadomb, where he had made himself at home in 
the wild creature’s unapproachable lair. 

To Lorand this was all quite bewildering. 

The arrogant, almost jesting, conversation, by the 
light of that mysterious flame, between a murderous 
robber and his victim:—the inexplicable riddle that a 
night-prowling highwayman should have entered a 
house with an empty pistol, while in his belt was an- 
other, loaded :—and then that woman, that incompre- 
hensible figure, who had laughed at a robber to his face, 
who had threatened him with a knife as he pressed her 
to his bosom, and who, could she have freed herself, 
would surely have dealt him such a blow as she had 
dealt the table :—that she, when her rescuer was going 
to shoot her assailant, should have torn aside his hand 
, terror and defended the miscreant with her own 
ody! 

What could be the solution of such a riddle? 

Meanwhile the lady had again lighted the candles: 


196 Debts of Honor 


again a gentle light was thrown on all things. Lorand 
gazed ather. In place of her previous green-blue face, 
which had gazed on him with the wild look of madness, 
a smiling, good-humored countenance was presented. 
She asked in a humorous tone: 

“Well, so you are a student, what kind of student? 
_ Where did you come from?” 

“T came with you, sitting beside the coachman.” 

“Do you wish to come to Lankadomb? ” 

“cc Yes.” 

“ Perhaps to Sarvélgyi’s? He loves prayers.” 

“Oh no. But to Mr. Topandy.” 

“TI cannot advise that : he is very rude to such as you. 
You are accustomed to preach. Don’t go there.” 

“ Still I am going there: and if you don’t care to let 
me sit on the box, I shall go on foot, as I have done un- 
til to-day.” 

“Do you know what? What you would get there 
would not be much. The money, which that man left 
here, you have by you as it is. Keep it for yourself: I 
give it to you. Then go back to the college.” 

“Madame, I am not accustomed to live on presents,” 
said Lorand, proudly refusing the proffered purse. 

The woman was astonished. This is a curious lega- 
tus, thought she, who does not live by presents. 

Her ladyship began to perceive that in this young 
man’s dust-stained features there was something of that 
which makes distinctions between man. She began to 
be surprised at this proud and noble gaze. 

Perhaps she was reflecting as to what kind of phe- 
nomenon it could be, who with unarmed hand had 
dared to attack an armed robber, in order to free from 
his clutch a strange woman in whom he had no inter- 
est, and then refused to accept the present he had so 
well deserved. 

Lorand saw that he had allowed a breach to open in 
his heart through which anyone could easily see the 
secret of his character. He hastened to cover his error. 

“T cannot accept a present, your ladyship, because I 
wish more. I am not a preaching legatus, but an ex- 


A Glance Into a Pistol Barrel 197 


pelled school-boy. I am in search of a position where I 
can earn my living by the work of my hands. When I 
protected your ladyship it occurred to me, ‘ This lady 
may have need for some farm steward or bailiff. She 
may recommend me to her husband.’ I shall be a faith- 
ful servant, and I have given a proof of my faithfulness, 
for | have no written testimonials.” 

“You wish to be Topandy’s steward? Do you know 
what a godless man he is?” 

“That is why I am in search of him. I started direct 
for him. They expelled me from school for my god- 
lessness. We cannot accuse each other of anything.” 

“You have committed some crime, then, and that 
is why you avoid the eyes of the world? Confess what 
you have done. Murdered? Confess. I shall not be 
afraid of you for it, nor shall I tell any one. I promise 
that you shall be welcomed, whatever the crime may be. 
I have said so. Have you committed murder?” 

“ No.” 

“ Beaten your father or mother?” 

“ No, madame :—My crime is that I have instigated 
the youth against their superiors.” 

“What superiors? Against the magistrate?” 

“Even superior to the magistrate.” 

“Perhaps against the priest. Well, Topandy will be 
delighted. He is a great fool in this matter.” 

The woman uttered these words laughingly; then 
suddenly a dark shadow crossed her face. With wan- 
dering glance she stepped up to the young man, and, 
putting her hand gently on his arm, asked him in a 
whisper: 

“Do you know how to pray?” 

Lorand looked at her, aghast. 

“To pray from a book—could you teach some one to 
pray from a book? Would it require a long time?” 

Lorand looked with ever-increasing wonder at the 
questioner. 

“ Very well—I did not say anything! Come with us. 
The coachman is already cracking his whip. Will you 
sit inside with us, or do you prefer to sit outside beside 


198 Debts of Honor 


the coachman in the open? It is better so; I should 
prefer it myself. Well, let us go.” 

The servant, who had crawled out from under the 
bench, had already collected the silver and crockery; 
her ladyship paid mine host, and they soon took their 
seats again in the carrriage :—and both thought deeply 
the whole way. The young man, of that woman, who 
playfully defied a thief, and struggled for a ring; then 
of that robber, who came with an empty pistol, and 
again of that woman, who when he spoke of the powers 
that be, understood nothing but a magistrate, and had 
inquired whether he knew how to pray from a book ;— 
and who meanwhile wore golden bracelets, ate from 
silver, was dressed in silk and carried the fire of 
youth in her eyes. While the woman thought of that 
young man who could fight like a hero; was ready 
to work like a day laborer, to throw money away like 
a noble, to fascinate women like an angel, and to blas- 
pheme the powers that be like a devil! 





CHAPTER XIII 
WHICH WILL CONVERT THE OTHER? 


In the morning the coach rolled into the courtyard 
of the castle of Lankadomb. * 

Topandy was waiting on the terrace, and ran to meet 
the young lady, helped her out of the coach and kissed 
her hand very courteously. At Lorand, who descended 
from his seat beside the coachman, he gazed with ques- 
tioning wonder. 

The lady answered in his place: 

“TI have brought an expelled student, who desires to 
be steward on your estate. You must accept him.” 

Then, trusting to the hurrying servants to bring her 
travelling rugs and belongings after her, she ascended 
into the castle, without further waste of words, leaving 
Lorand alone with Topandy. 

Topandy turned to the young fellow with his usual 
satirical humor. 

“Well, fellow, you’ve got a fine recommendation! 
An expelled student; that’s saying a good deal. You 
want to be steward, or bailiff, or przfectus here, do 
you? It’s all the same; choose which title you please. 
Have you a smattering of the trade?” 

“TI was brought up to a farm life: it is surely no 
hieroglyphic to me.” 

‘Bravo! So I shall tell you what my steward has to 
do. Can you plough with a team of four? Can you 
stack hay, standing on the top of the sheaves? Can you 
keep order among a dozen reapers? Can you... ? 

Lorand was not taken aback by his questions. He 
merely replied to each one, “ yes.” 


*7. e., Orchard-hill. 
199 


200 Debts of Honor 


“That's splendid,” said Topandy. ‘‘ Many renowned 
and well-versed gentlemen of business have come to 
me, to recommend themselves as farm bailiffs, in buck- 
led shoes; but when I asked them if they could heap 
dung on dung carts, they all ran away. I am pleased 
my questions about that did not knock you over. Do 
you know what the ‘ conventio’ * will be?” 

oe Yes.”’ 

“ But how much do you expect?” 

“Until I can make myself useful, nothing; after- 
wards, as much as is required from one day to the 
next, 7’ 

“Well said; but have you no claims to bailiff’s lodg- 
ings, office, or something else? That shall be left en- 
tirely to your own discretion. On my estate, the stew- 
ard may lodge where he likes—either in the ox-stall, 
in the cow-shed, or in the buffalo stable. I don’t mind; 
I leave it entirely to your choice.” 

Topandy looked at him with wicked eyes, as he 
waited for the answer. 

Lorand, however, with the most serious countenance, 
merely answered that his presence would be required 
most in the ox-stall, so he would take up his quarters 
there. 

“So on that point we are agreed,” said Topandy, 
with a loud laugh. “ We shall soon see on what terms 
of friendship we shall stand. I accept the terms; when 
you are tired of them, don’t trouble to say so. There is 
the gate.” 

“T shall not turn in that direction.” 

“ Good! I admire your determination. Now come 
with me; you will receive at once your provisions for 
five days—take them with you. The shepherd will 
teach you how to cook and prepare your meals.” 

Lorand did not make a single grimace at these pe- 
culiar conditions attached to the office of steward; he 
acquiesced in everything, as if he found everything 
most correct. 


* The payment. The honorarium. 


Which Will Convert the Other 201 


“ Well, come with me, Sir bailiff!” 

So he led him into the castle, without even so much 
as inquiring his name. He thought that in any case he 
would disappear in a day or two. 

Her ladyship was just in the ante-room, where break- 
fast was usually served. 

While Topandy was explaining to Lorand the va- 
rious quarters from which he might choose a bedroom, 
her ladyship had got the coffee ready, for déjeuner, 
and had laid the fine tablecloth on the round table, on 
which had been placed three cups, and just so many 
knives, forks and napkins. 

As Topandy stepped into the room, letting Lorand 
in after him, her ladyship was engaged in pouring out 
the coffee from the silver pot into the cups, while the 
rich buffalo milk boiled away merrily on the glittering 
white tripod before her. Topandy placed himself in 
the nearest seat, leaving Lorand to stand and wait un- 
til her ladyship had time to weigh out his rations 
for him. 

“That is not your place!” exclaimed the fair lady. 

Topandy sprang up suddenly. 

“Pardon. Whose place is this?” 

“That gentleman’s!” she answered, and nodded at 
Lorand, both her hands being occupied. 

“Please take a seat, sir,” said Topandy, making 
room for Lorand. 

“You will always sit there,” said the lady, putting 
down the coffee-pot and pointing to the place which 
had been laid on her left. ‘‘ At breakfast, at dinner, at 
supper.” 

This had a different sound from what the gentleman 
of the house had said. Rather different from garlic and 
black bread. 

“This will be your room here on the right,” con- 
tinued the lady. “The butler’s name is George; he 
will be your servant. And John is the coachman, who 
will stand at your orders.” 

Lorand’s wonder only increased. He wished to make 
some remark, but he did not know himself what he 


’ 


202 Debts of Honor 


wanted to say. Topandy, however, burst into a Ho- 
meric laugh, in which he quite lost himself. 

‘“ Why, brother, didn’t you tell me you had already 
arranged matters with the lady? You would have 
saved me so much trouble. If matters stand so, sleep 
on my sofa, and drink from my glass!” 

Lorand wished to play the proud beggar. He raised 
his head defiantly. 

“ T shall sleep in the hay, and shall drink from—— 

“T advise you to do as I tell you,” said the lady, 
making both men wince with the flash of her gaze. 

“ Surely, brother,” continued Topandy, “I can give 
you no better counsel than that. Well, let us sit down, 
and drink ‘ Brotherhood’ with a glass of cognac.” 

Lorand thought it wise to give way before the com- 
manding gaze of the lady, and to accept the proffered 
place, while the latter laughed outright in sudden good- 
humor. She was so lovable, so natural, so pleasant, 
when she laughed like that, Topandy could not forbear 
from kissing her hands. 

The lady laughingly, and with jesting prudery, ex- 
tended the other hand toward Lorand. 

“ Well, the other too! Don’t be bashful!” 

lorand kissed the other hand. 

Upon this, she clapped her hands over her head, and 
burst into laughter. 

“See, see! I have brought you a letter from town,” 
said the lady, drawing out her purse. “It’s a good 
thing the thief left me this, or your letter would have 
been lost as well.” 

“ Thief?” asked Topaindy earnestly. ‘ What thief?” 

“Why, at the ‘Skull-smasher’ inn, where we 
stopped to water our horses, a thief attacked us, and 
then wanted to empty our pockets. I threw him my 
money and my bracelet, but he wanted to tear this ring 
from my finger, too. That I would not give up. Then 
he caught hold of my hand, and to prevent my scream- 
ing, thrust the butt-end of his pistol into my mouth— 
the fool!” 


” 


Which Will Convert the Other 203 


The lady related all this with such an air of indiffer- 
ence that Topandy could not make out whether she was 
joking or not. 

“ What fable is this?” 

“Fable indeed!” was the exclamation that greet- 
ed him on two sides, on the one from her ladyship, on 
the other from the neat little maid, the latter crying out 
how much she had been frightened; that she was still 
all of a tremble; the former turned back her sleeve and 
held out her arm to Topandy. 

“ See how my arm got scratched by the grasp of the 
robber! and look here, how bruised my mouth is from 
the pistol,” said she, parting her rosy lips, behind which 
two rows of pearly teeth glistened. “It’s a good thing 
he didn’t knock out my teeth.” 

“Well, that would have been a pity. But how did 
you get away from him,” asked Topandy, in an anxious 
tone. 

“Well, I don’t know whether you would ever have 
seen me again, if this young man had not dashed to our 
assistance ; for he sprang forward and snatched the pis- 
tol from the hand of the robber,—who immediately took 
to his heels and ran away.” 

Topandy again shook his head, and said it was hard 
to believe. 

“No doubt he still has the pistol in his pocket.” 

“Give it to me.” 

“ But don’t fool with it; it might go off and hurt 
somebody.” 

Lorand handed the pistol in question to Topandy. 
The barrel was of bronze, highly chased in silver. 

“Curious!” exclaimed Topandy, examining the or- 
namentation. This pistol bears the Sarvélgyi arms.” 

Without another word he put the weapon in his 
pocket, and shook hands with Lorand across the table. 

“My boy, you are a fine fellow. I honor you for so 
bravely defending my people. Now I have the more 
reason in agreeing to your living henceforward 
under the same roof with me; unless you fear it may, 


204 Debts of Honor 


through fault of mine, fall in upon you. What was the 
robber like?” he said, turning again to the women. 

“We could not see him, because he put out the candle 
and ran away.” 

Lorand was struck by the fact that the woman did 
not seem inclined to recall the robber’s features, which 
she must, however have been able to see by the help of 
the spirit-lamp; he noticed, too, that she did not utter a 
word about the robber’s being a gypsy. 

“T don’t know what he was like,” she repeated, with 
a meaning look at Lorand. “ Neither of us could see, 
for it was dark. For the same reason our deliverer 
could not shoot at him, because it was difficult to aim 
in the dark. If he had missed him, the robber might 
have murdered us all.” 

“ A fine adventure,” muttered Topandy. “I shall not 
allow you to travel alone at night another time. I shall 
go armed myself. I shall not put up with the existence 
of that den in the marsh any longer or it will always 
be occupied by such as mean to harm us. As soon as 
the Tisza overflows, I shall set fire to the reeds about 
the place, when the stack will catch fire, too.” 

During this conversation the woman had produced 
the letter. 

“There it is,” she cried, handing it to Topandy. 

“ A lady’s handwriting! ” exclaimed Topandy, glanc- 
ing at the direction. 

“What, you can tell by the letters whether it is the 
writing of a man or a woman?” queried the beautiful 
lady, throwing a curious glance at the writing. 

Lorand looked at it, too, and it seemed to him as if 
he had seen the writing before, but he could not remem- 
ber where. 

It was a strange hand; the characters did not re- 
semble the writing of any of his lady acquaintances, 
and yet he must have seen it somewhere. 

You may cast about and reflect long, Lorand, before 
you discover whose writing it is. You never thought of 
her who wrote this letter. You never even noticed her 
existence! It is the writing of Fanny, of the jolly little 


bf 


Which Will Convert the Other 205 


exchange-girl. It was Desi who once showed you 
that handwriting for a moment, when your mother sent 
her love in Fanny’s letter. Now the unknown hand had 
written to Topandy to the effect that a young man 
would appear before him, bespattered and ragged. He 
was not to ask whence he came, or whither he went; 
but he was to look well at the noble face, and he would 
know from it that the youth was not obliged to avoid 
persecution of the world for some base crime. 

Topandy gazed long at the youthful face before him. 
Could this be the one she meant? 

The story of the Parliamentary society of the young 
men was well known to him. 

He asked no questions. 


* * *K * * ok a ok 1 


After the first day Lorand felt himself quite at home 
in Topandy’s home. 

Topandy treated him as a duke would treat his only 
son, whom he was training to be his heir; Lorand’s con- 
duct toward Topandy was that of a poor man’s son, 
learning to make himself useful in his father’s home. 
Each found many extraordinary traits in the other, and 
each would have loved to probe to the depths of the 
other’s peculiarities. 

Lorand remarked in his uncle a deep, unfathomable 
feeling underlying his seeming godlessness. Topandy, 
on his side, suspected that some dark shadow had pre- 
maturely crossed the serenity of the young man’s mind. 
Each tried to pierce the depths of the other’s soul— 
but in vain. 

Her ladyship had on the first day confided her life 
secret to Lorand. When he endeavored to pay her the 
compliment of kissing her hand after supper, she with- 
drew her hand and refused to accept this mark of re- 
spect. 

i My dear boy, don’t kiss my hand, or ‘ my ladyship ” 
me any more. I am but a poor gypsy girl. My parents 
were simple camp-folk; my name is Czipra. I am a 
domestic servant here, whom the master has dressed 


206 Debts of Honor 


up, out of caprice, in silks and laces, and he makes the 
servants call me “ madame,’ on which account they sub- 
sequently mock me,—of course, only behind my back, 
for if they did it to my face I should strike them; but 
don’t you laugh at me behind my back. I am an 
orphan gypsy girl, and my master picked me up out of 
the gutter. He is very kind to me, and I would die for 
him, if fate so willed. That’s how matters stand, do 
you understand?” 

The gypsy girl glanced with dimmed eyes at To- 
pandy, who smilingly listened to her frank confession, 
as though he approved of it. Then, as if she had gained 
her master’s consent, she turned again to Lorand: 

“So call me simply ‘ Czipra.’ ” 

“ All right, Czipra, my sister,” said Lorand, holding 
out his hand. 

‘Well now, that is nice of you to add that;’ upon 
which she pressed Lorand’s hand, and left the men to 
themselves. 

Topandy turned the conversation, and spoke no more 
to Lorand of Czipra. He first of all wished to find 
out what impression the discovery would make upon 
the young man. 

The following days enlightened him. 

Lorand, from that day, far from showing more fa- 
miliarity, manifested greater deference towards the re- 
puted lady of the house. Since she had confessed her 
true position to him, moreover he treated her as one who 
knew well that the smallest slight would doubly hurt 
one who was not in a position to complain. He was 
kind and attentive to the woman, who, beneath the ap- 
pearance of happiness, was wretched, though innocent. 
To the uninitiated, she was the lady of the house; to the 
better informed, she was the favorite of her master, and 
that was nought but a maiden in the disguise of wife, 
and Lorand was able to read the riddle aright. 

If Topandy watched him, he in his turn observed To- 
pandy; he saw that Topandy did not watch, nor was 
jealous of the girl. He consented to her traveling 
alone, confided the greater part of his fortune to her, 


Which Will Convert the Other 207 


overwhelmed her with presents, but beyond this did not 
trouble about her. Still he showed a certain affection 
which did not arise from mere habit. He would not 
brook the least harm to her from anybody, making the 
whole household fear her as much as the master, and if 
by chance they hesitated as to their duty to one or the 
other, it was always Czipra who had a prior claim on 
their services. 

Topandy at once perceived that Lorand did not run 
after a fair face, nor after the face of any woman, who 
was not difficult to conquer, because she was not guard- 
ed, and who might be easily got rid of, being but a 
gypsy girl. His heart was either fully occupied by one 
object only, or it was an infinite void which nothing 
could fill. Topandy led a boisterous life, when he fell 
in with his chums, but when alone he was quite another 
man. To fathom nature’s mysteries was a passion with 
him. In a corner of the basement of the castle there 
was a chemical laboratory, where he passed his time 
with making physical experiments ; he labored with in- 
struments, he probed the secrets of the stars, and of the 
earth ; at such times he only cared to have Lorand at his 
side; in him he found a being capable of sharing his 
scientific researches, though he did not share in his 
doubts. 

“All is matter!’ such had for centuries been the 
motto of the naturalist, and therefore the naturalist had 
ever found a kindred spirit in the agnostic. 

Often did Czipra come upon the two men at their 
quiet pursuits and watch them for hours together; and 
though she did not understand what in this higher 
science went beyond her comprehension, yet she could 
take pleasure in observing Cartesius’ diving imps; she 
dared to sit upon the insulators, and her jey was bound- 
less when Lorand at such a time, approaching her with 
his finger, called forth electric sparks from her dress 
or hands. She found enjoyment, too, in peering through 
the great telescopes at the heavenly wonders. Lorand 
was always ready to answer her questions; but the 
poor girl was far from understanding all. Yet how 


208 Debts of Honor 


rapturous the thought of knowing all! Once when 
Lorand was explaining to her the properties of the sun- 
spectrum, the girl sighed and, suddenly bending down 
to Lorand, whispered blushingly: 

“ Teach me to read.” 

Lorand looked at her in amazement. Topandy, look- 
ing over his shoulder, asked her: 

es me, what would be the use of teaching you to 
read?” 

The girl clasped her hands to her bosom: 

“T should like to learn to pray.” 

“What? To pray? And what would you pray for? 
Is there anything that you cannot do without?” 

“There 'is.” 

“What can it be?” 

“That is what I should like to know by praying.” 

“And you do not know yourself what it is?” 

“JT cannot express what it is.” 

“ And do you know anybody who could give it you?” 

The girl pointed to the sky. 

Topandy shrugged his shoulders at her. 

“ Bah! you goose, reading is not for girls. Women 
are best off when they know nothing.” 

Then he laughed in her face. 

Czipra ran weeping out of the laboratory. 

Lorand pitied the poor creature, who, dressed in silks 


and finery, did not know her letters, and who was in-. 


capable of raising her voice to God. He was in a mood, 
through long solitude, for pitying others; under a 
strange name, known to nobody, separated from the 
world, he was able to forget the lofty dreams to 
which a smooth career had pointed, and which fate, at 
his first steps, had mocked. He had given up the idea 
that the world should acknowledge this title: “a great 
patriot, who is the holder of a high office.” He who 
does not desire this should keep to the ploughshare. 
Ambition should only have well-regulated roads, and 
success should only begin with a lower office in the state. 
But he whose hobby it is to murmur, will find a fine ca- 
reer in field labor; and he who wishes to bury himself, 
will find himself supplied, in life, with a beautiful, ro- 


ay 


Which Will Convert the Other 209 


mantic, flowery wheat-covered cemetery by the fields, 
from the centre of which the happy dead creatures of 
life cheerfully mock at those who weary themselves 
and create a disturbance—with the idea that they are 
doing something, whereas their end is the same as that 
of the rest of mankind. 

Lorand was even beginning to grow indifferent to the 
awful obligation that lay before him at the end of the 
appointed time. It was still afar off. Before then a 
man might die peacefully and quietly; perhaps that 
other who guarded the secret might pass away ere 
then. And perhaps the years at the plough would 
harden the skin of a man’s soul, as it did of his face and 
hands, so that he would come to ridicule a wager, 
which in his youthful over-enthusiasm he would have 
fulfilled; a wager the refusal to accept which would 
merely win the commendation of everybody. And if 
any one could say the reverse, how could he find him 
to say it to his face? As regards his family at home, 
he was fairly at his ease. He often received letters 
from Dezs6 (Desiderius), under another address; they 
were all well at home, and treated the fate of the ex- 
pelled son with good grace. He also learned that Mad- 
ame Balnokhazy had not returned to her husband, but 
had gone abroad with that actor with whom she had 
previously been acquainted. This also he had wiped 
out from his memory. His whole mind was a perfect 
blank in which there was room for other people’s mis- 
fortunes, 

It was impossible not to remark how Czipra 
became attached to him in her simplicity. She had a 
feeling which she had never felt before, a feeling of 
shame, if some impudent jest was made at her expense 
by one of Topandy’s guests, in the presence of Lorand. 

Once, when Topandy and Lorand were amusing 
themselves at greater length with optical experiments in 
the lonely scientific apartment, Lorand took the liberty 
of introducing the subject. 

.. “Ts it true that that girl has grown up without any 
knowledge whatever?” 

“ Surely ; she knows neither God nor alphabet.” 


210 Debts of Honor 


|e Why don’t you allow the poor child to learn/to 
know them?” 

“What, her alphabet? Because in my eyes it is quite 
superfluous. A mad idea once occurred to me of pick- 
ing some naked gypsy child out of the streets, with the 
intention of making a happy being therefrom. What is 
happiness in the world? Ease and ignorance. Had I 
a child of my own, I should do the same with it. The 
secret of life is to have a good appetite, sound sleep,and 
a good heart. If I reflect what bitternesses have been 
my lot my whole life, I find the cause of each one was 
what I have learned. Many a night did I lie awake in 
agonized distraction, while my servants were snoring 
in peace. I desired to see before me a person as happy 
as it was my ideal to be; a person free from those 
distressing tortures, which the civilized world has dis- 
covered for the persecution of man by man. Well, I 
have begun by telling you why I did not teach Czipra 
her alphabet.” 

“ And God?” 

Topandy took his eyes off the telescope, with which 
he had just been gazing at the starry sky. 

“T don’t know Him myself.” 

Lorand turned from him with a distressed air. To- 
pandy remarked it. 

“My dear boy, my dear twenty-year-old child, prob- 
ably you know more than I do; if you know Him, I beg 
you to teach me.” 

Lorand shrugged his shoulders, then began to dis- 
cuss scientific subjects. 

“Does Dollond’s telescope show stars in the Milky 
Way?” 

“Yes, a million twinkling stars o’erspread the Milky 
Way, each several star a sun.” 

“Does it dissipate the mist in the head of the North- 
ern Hound?” 

“The mist remains as it was before—a round cloudy 
mass with a ring of mist around it.” 

“Perhaps Gregory’s telescope, just arrived from 
Vienna, magnifies better?” 


Bi 
a ae 


Which Will Convert the Other arz 


“ Bring it here. Since its arrival there has been no 
cleat weather, to enable us to make experiments with 
a. 

Topandy gazed at the heavens through the new tele- 
scope with great interest. 

“ Ah,” he remarked in a tone of surprise. ‘‘ This is 
a splendid instrument; the star-mist thins, some tiny 
stars appear out of the ring.” 

‘“ And the mass itself?” 

“That remains mist. Not even this telescope can 
disperse its atoms.” 

“ Well, shall we not experiment with Chevalier’s mi- 
croscope now?” 

“ That is a good idea; get it ready.” 

“What shall we put under it? A rhinchites?”’ 

“That will do.” 

Lorand lit the spirit-lamp, which threw light on the 
subject under the magnifying glass; then he first looked 
into it himself, to find the correct focus. Enraptured, 
he cried out: 

“Look here! That fabled armor of Homer’s Jliad 
is not to be compared with this little insect’s wing- 
shields. They are nothing but emerald and enamelled 
gold.” 

“ Indeed it is so.” 

“ And now listen to me: between the two wings of 
this little insect there is a tiny parasite or worm, which 
in its turn has two eyes, a life, and life-blood flowing 
in its veins, and in this worm’s stomach other worms 
are living, impenetrable to the eye of this microscope.” 

“I understand,” said the atheist, glancing into Lo- 
rand’s eyes. ‘ You are explaining to me that the im- 
mensity of the world of creation reaching to awful eter- 
nity is only equalled by the immensity of the descent to 
the shapeless nonentity ; and that is your God!” 

The sublime calm of Lorand’s face indicated that 
that was his idea. 

“My dear boy,” said Topandy, placing his two hands 
on Lorand’s shoulder, “ with that idea I have long been 
acquainted. I, too, fall down before immensity, and 


212 Debts of Honor 


recognize that we represent but one class in the up- 
ward direction towards the stars, and one degree in the 
descent to the moth and rust that corrupt; and perhaps 
that worm, that I killed in order to take rapt pleasure 
in its wings, thought itself the middle of eternity 
round which the world is whirling like Plato’s feather- 
less two-footed animals; and when at the door of death 
it uttered its last cry, it probably thought that this cry 
for vengeance would be noted by some one, as when at 
Warsaw four thousand martyrs sang with their last 
breath, “ All is not yet lost.’ ”’ 

“That is not my faith, sir. The history of the 
ephemeral insect is the history of a day,—that of a man 
means a whole life; the history of nations means centu- 
ries, that of the world eternity; and in eternity justice 
comes to each one in irremediable and unalterable suc- 
cession.” 

“T grant that, my boy; and I allow, too, that the 
comets are certainly claimants to the world whose suits 
have been deferred to this long justice, who one day 
will all recover their inheritances, from which some 
tyrant sun has driven them out; but you must also ac- 
knowledge, my child, that for us, the thoughtful worms, 
or stars, if you like, which can express their thoughts 
in spirited curses, providence has no care. For every- 
thing, everything there is a providence: be it so, I be- 
lieve it. But for the living kind there is none, unless 
we take into account the rare occasions when a plague 
visits mankind, because it is too closely spread over the 
earth and requires thinning.” 

“Sir, many misfortunes have I suffered on earth, 
very many, and such as fate distributes indiscrimi- 
nately; but it has never destroyed—my faith.” 

“No misfortune has ever attacked me. It is not 
suffering that has made me sceptical. My life has 
always been to my taste. Should some one divide up his 
property in reward for prayer, I should not benefit one 
crumb from it—It is hypocrites who have forcibly 
driven me this way. Perhaps, were I not surrounded by 
such, I should keep silence about my unbelief, I should 


Which Will Convert the Other 213 


not scandalize others with it, I should not seek to perse- 
cute the world’s hypocrites with what they call blas- 
phemy. Believe me, my boy, of a million men, all but 
one regard Providence as a rich creditor, from whom 
they may always borrow—but when it is a question of 
paying the interest, then only that one remembers it.” 

““ And that one is enough to hallow the ideal!” 

“That one?—but you will not be that one! ” 

Lorand, astonished, asked: 

“Why not?” 

“ Because, if you remain long in my vicinity, you 
must without fail turn into such a universal disbeliever 
as I am.” 

Lorand smiled to himself. 

“My child,” said Topandy, “ you will not catch the 
infection from me, who am always sneering and caus- 
ing scandals, but from that other who prays to the 
sound of bells.” 

“You mean Sarvélgyi?” 

“Whom else could I mean? You will meet this man 
every day. And in the end you will say just as I do— 
“If one must go to heaven in this wise, I had rather re- 
main here?’ ”’ 

“ Well, and what is this Sarvélgyi? ” 

“A hypocrite, who lies to all the saints in turn, and 
would deceive the eyes of the archangels if they did not 
look after themselves.” 

“You have a very low opinion of the man.” 

“A low opinion? That is the only good thing in my 
heart, that I despise the fellow.” 

“Simply because he is pious? In the world of 
to-day, however, it is a kind of courage to dare to show 
one’s piety outwardly before a world of scepticism 
and indifference. I should like to defend him against 
you.” 

“Would you? Very well. Let us start at once. Draw 
up a chair and listen to me. I shall be the devil’s advo- 
cate. I shall tell you a story concerning this fellow; I 
was merely a simple witness to the whole. The man 
never did me any harm. [| tell you once again that I 


214 Debts of Honor 


have no complaint to make either against mankind or 
against any beings that may exist above or below. Sit 
beside me, my boy.” 

Lorand first of all stirred up the fire in the fire-place, 
and put out the spirit lamp of the microscope, so that 
the room was lighted only by the red glare of the log- 
fire and the moon, which was now rising above the 
horizon and shed her pale radiance through the win- 
dow. 

“In my younger days I had a very dear friend, a re- 
lation, with whom I had always gone to school and such 
fast comrades were we that even in the class-room we 
sat always side by side. My comrade was unapproach- 
ably first in the class, and [ came next; sometime be- 
tween us like a dividing wall came this fellow 
Sarvolgyi, who was even then a great flatterer and 
sneak, and in this way sometimes drove me out of my 
place—and young schoolboys think a great deal of 
their own particular places. Of course I was even then 
so godless that they could not make sufficient com- 
plaints against me. Later, during the French war, as 
the schools suffered much, we were both sent together 
to Heidelberg. The devil brought Sarvélgyi after us. 
His parents were parvenues. What our parents did 
they were always bound to imitate. They might have 
sent their boy to Jena, Berlin, or Nineveh; but he must 
come just where we were.” 

“You have never mentioned your friend’s name,” 
said Lorand, who had listened in anguish to the com- 
mencement of the story. 

“ Indeed ?—Why there’s really no need for the name. 
He was a friend of mine. As far as the story is con- 
cerned it doesn’t matter what they called him. Still that 
you may not think I am relating a fable, I may as well 
tell you his name. It was Lérinez Aronffy.” 

A cold numbness seized Lorand when he heard his 
father’s name. Then his heart began suddenly to beat 
at a furious pace. He felt he was standing before the 
crypt door, whose secret he had so often striven to 
fathom. 


Which Will Convert-the Other 21 5 


“I never knew a fairer figure, a nobler nature, a 
warmer heart than he had,” continued Topandy. “I 
admired and loved him, not merely as my relation, but 
as the ideal of the young men of the day. The common 
knowledge of all kinds of little secrets, such as only 
young people understand among themselves, united us 
more closely in that bond of friendship which is usually 
deferred until later days. At that time there broke out 
all over Europe those liberal political views, which had 
such a fascinating influence generally on young men. 
Here too there was an awakening of what is called na- 
tional feeling; great philosophers even turned against 
one another with quite modern opposition in public as 
well as in private life. All this made more intimate the 
relations which had till then been mere childish habit. 

“ We were two years at the academy ; those two years 
were passed amidst enough noise and pleasure. Had we 
money, we spent it together; had we none, we starved 
together. For one another we went empty-handed, for 
one another, we fought, and were put in prison. Then 
we met Sarvolgyi very seldom; the academy is a great 
forest and men are not forced together as on the benches 
of a grammar-school. 

“ Just at the very climax of the French war, the idea 
struck us to edit a written newspaper among ourselves.” 
(Lorand began to listen with still greater interest.) 

“We travestied with humorous score in our paper 
all that the ‘ Augsburger ’ delivered with great pathos: 
those who read laughed at it. 

“ However, there came an end to our amusement, 
when one fine day we received the ‘ consilium abeundi.’ 

“TI was certainly not very much annoyed. So much 
transcendental science, so much knowledge of the world 
had been driven into me already, that I longed to 
go home to the'company of the village sexton, who, still 
believed that anecdotes and fables were the highest 
science. 

“Only two days were allowed us at Heidelberg to 
collect our belongings and say adieu to our so-called 
‘treasures.’ During these two days I only saw Aronffy 


216 Debts of Honor 


twice: once on the morning of the first day, when he 
came to me in a state of great excitement, and said, ‘I 
have the scoundrel by the ear who betrayed us!—If I 
don’t return, follow in my tracks and avenge me.’ I 
asked him why he did not choose me for his second, but 
he replied: ‘ Because you also are interested and must 
follow me.’ And then on the evening of the second 
day he came home again, quite dispirited and out of 
sorts! Ispoke to him; he would scarcely answer; and 
when I finally insisted: ‘ perhaps you killed someone?’ 
he answered determinedly, ‘ Yes.’ ” 

“And who was that man?” inquired Lorand, taken 
aback. 

“Don’t interrupt me. You shall know soon,” 
Topandy muttered. 

“From that day Aronffy was completely changed. 
The good-humored, spirited young fellow became sud- 
denly a quiet, serious, sedate man, who would never 
join us inany amusement. He avoided the world, and I 
remarked that in the world he did his best to avoid me. 

“T thought I knew why that was. I thought I knew 
the secret of his earnestness. He had murdered a man 
whom he had challenged to a duel. That weighed upon 
his mind. He could not be cold-blooded enough to 
drive even such a bagatelle from his head. Other peo- 
ple count it a ‘ bravour,’ or at most suffer from the per- 
secutions of others—not of themselves. He would soon 
forget it, I thought, as he grew older. 

“Yet my dear friend remained year by year a serious- 
minded man, and when later on I met him, his society 
was for me so unenjoyable that I never found any 
pleasure in frequenting it. 

“ Still, as soon as he returned home, he got married. 
Even before our trip to Heidelberg he had become en- 
gaged to a very pleasant, pretty, and quiet young girl. 
They were in love with each other. Still Aronffy re- 
mained always gloomy. In the first year of his mar- 
riage a son was born to him. Later another. They say 
both the sons were handsome, clever boys. Yet that 
never brightened him. Immediately after the honey- 


Which Will Convert the Other 217 


moon he went to the war, and behaved there like one 
who thinks the sooner he is cut off the better. Later, all 
the news I received of him confirmed my idea that 
Aronffy was suffering from an incurable mental dis- 
ease.—Does a man, the candle of whose life we have 
snuffed out deserve that?” 

“ What was the name of the man he murdered?” de- 
manded Lorand with renewed disquietude. 

“ As I have told you, you shall know soon: the story 
will not run away from me! only listen further. 

“ One day—it might have been twelve years since the 
day we shook off the dust of the Heidelberg school from 
our boots—I received a parcel from Heidelberg, from 
the Local Council, which informed me that a certain Dr. 
Stoppelfeld had left me this packet in his will. 

“ Stoppelfeld? I racked my brains to discover who it 
might be that from beyond the border had left me some- 
thing in his testament. Finally it occurred to me that a 
long light-haired medical student, who was famous in 
his days among the drinking clubs, had attended the 
same lectures as we had. If I was not deceived, we had 
drunk together and fought a duel. 

“TY undid the packet, and found within it a letter ad- 
dressed to me. 

“T have that letter still, but I know every word by 
heart so often have I read it. Its contents were as fol> 
lows: 


“* My DEAR COMRADE: 

“* You may remember that, on the day before your 
departure from Heidelberg, one of our young col- 
leagues, Lorincz Aronffy, looked among his acquaint- 
ances for seconds in some affair of honor. As it hap- 
pened I was the first he addressed. I nattially accepted 
the invitation, and asked his reason and business. As 
you too know them—he told me so—I shall not write 
them here. He informed me, too, why he did not choose 
you as his second, and at the same time bound me to 
proinise, if he should fall in the duel, to tell you that 
you might follow the matter up. I accepted, and went 


218 Debts of Honor 


with him to the challenged. I explained that in such a 
case a duel was customary, and in fact necessary ; if he 
wished to avoid it, he would be forced to leave the 
academy. The challenged did not refuse the challenge, 
but said that as he was of weak constitution, short- 
sighted and without practice with any kind of weapons, 
he chose the American duel of drawing lots!’ 

; Topandy glanced by chance at Lorand’s 
face, and thought that the change of color he saw on 
his countenance was the reflection of the flickering 
flame in the fire-place. 

“ The letter continued: 

.“* At our academy at that time there was a great 
rage for that stupid kind of duel, where two men draw 
lots and the one whose name comes out, must blow his 
brains out after a fixed time. Asses! At that time I 
had already enough common sense, when summoned to 
act as second in such cases, to try to persuade the prin- 
cipals to fix a longer period, calculating quite rightly 
that within ten or twelve years the bitterest enemies 
would become reconciled, and might even become good 
friends:\the successful principal might be magnani- 
mous, and give his opponent his life, or the unsuccess- 
ful adversary might forget in his well-being, such a 
ridiculous obligation. 

“Tn this case I arranged a period of sixteen years 
between the parties. I knew my men: sixteen years 
were necessary for the education of the traitorous 
schoolfox* into a man of honor, or for his proud, 
upright young adversary to reach the necessary pitch 
of sang froid that would make a settlement of their dif- 
ference feasible. 

“* Aronffy objected at first: “ At once or never!” 
but he had finally to accept the decision of the seconds: 
and we drew lots. 

“* Aronffy’s name came out. 

Lorand was staring at the narrator with 


999 


* 74. e., Schoolfox, a term of contempt. 


Which Will Convert the Other 219 


fixed eyes, and had no feeling for the world outside, as 
he listened in rapt awe to this story of the past. 

““ The name that was drawn out we gave to the suc- 
cessful party, who had the right to send this card, after 
sixteen years were passed, to his adversary, in order if 
the latter deferred the fulfilment of his obligation, to re- 
mind him thereof. 

“*Then we parted company, you went home and I 
thought we should forget the matter as many others 
have done. 

“* But I was deceived. To this, the hour of my death, 
it has always remained in my memory, has always ago- 
nized and persecuted me. I inquired of my acquaint- 
ances in Hungary about the two adversaries, and all I 
learned only increased my anguish. Aronffy was a 
proud and earnest man. It is surely stupidity for a man 
to kill himself, when he is happy and faring well: yet a 
proud man would far rather the worms gnawed his 
body than his soul, and could not endure the idea of 
giving up toa man, whom yesterday he had the right to 
despise, of his own accord, that right of contempt. He 
can die, but he cannot be disgraced. He is a fool for his 
pains: but it is consistent.’ ” 

Lorand was shuddering all over. 

“*T am in my death-struggles,’ continued Stoppel- 
feld’s letter: ‘ I know the day, the hour in which I shall 
end all; but that thought does not calm me so much, 
seeing that I cannot go myself and seek that man, who 
holds Aronffy in his hands, to tell him: “ Sir, twelve’ 
years have passed. Your opponent has suffered twelve 
years already because of a terrible obligation: for him 
every pleasure of life has been embittered, before him 
the future eternity has been overclouded ; be contented 
with that sacrifice, and do not ask for the greatest too. 
Give back one man to his family, to his country, and to 
God—” But I cannot go. I must sit here motionless 
and count the beats of my pulse, and reckon how many 
remain till the last. 

“* And that is why I came to you: you know both, 
and were a good friend to one: go, speak, and act. Per- 


220 Debts of Honor 


‘haps I am a ridiculous fool: I am afraid of my own 
shadow ; but it agonizes and horrifies me; it will not let 
me die. Take this inheritance from me. Let me rest 
peacefully in my ashes. So may God bless you! The 
man who has Aronffy’s word, as far as I know, is a 
very gracious man, it will be easy for you to persuade 
him—his name is Sarvolgyi.’ ” 

At these words Topandy rose from his seat 
and went to the window, opening both sides of it: so 
heavy was the air within the room. The cold light of 
the moon shone on Lorand’s brow. 

Topandy, standing then at the window, continued the 
thrilling story he had commenced. He could not sit still 
to relate it. Nor did he speak as if his words were for 
Lorand alone, but as if he wished the dumb trees to hear 
it too, and the wondering moon, and the shivering stars 
and the shooting meteors that they might gainsay if 
possible the earthy worm who was speaking. 

“T at once hurried across to the fellow. I was now 
going with tender, conciliatory countenance to a man 
whose threshold I had never crossed, whom I had never 
greeted when we met. I first offered him my hand that 
there might be peace between us. I began to appraise 
his graciousness, his virtues. I begged him to pardon 
the annoyances I had previously caused him; whatever 
atonement he might demand from me I would be glad 
to fulfill. 

“The fellow received me with gracious obeisance, 

+ and grasped my hand. He said, upon his soul, he could 
not recall any annoyance he had ever suffered from me. 
On the contrary he calculated how much good I had 
done him in my life, beginning from his school-boy 
years:—I merely replied that I certainly could not re- 
member it. 

“T hastened to come straight to the point. I told 
him that I had been brought to his home by an affair 
the settlement of which I owed to a good old friend, 
and asked him to read the letter that I had received that 
day. 

“ Sarvolgyi read the letter to the end. I watched his 


Which Will Convert the Other 221 


face all the time he was reading it. He did not cease 
for a moment that stereotyped smile of tenderness 
which gives me the shivers whenever I see it in my 
recollections. 

“When he was through with the letter, he quietly 
folded it and gave it back. 

“*Have you not discovered,’ he said to me with 
pious face, ‘that the man who wrote that letter is— 
mad?’ 

“* Mad?’ I asked, aghast. 

“* Without doubt,’ answered Sarvélgyi; ‘he him- 
self writes that he has a disease of the nerves, sees 
visions, and is afraid of his shadow. The whole story 
is—a fable. I never had any conflict with our friend 
Aronffy, which would have given occasion for an Amer- 
ican or even a Chinese duel. From beginning to end it 
is—a poem.’ 

“T knew it was no poem: Aronffy had had a duel, 
but I had never known with whom. I had never asked 
him about it any more after he had, to my question, 
“perhaps you have murdered someone?’ answered, 
‘Yes.’ Plainly he had meant himself. I tried to pene- 
trate more deeply into that man’s heart. 

“* Sir, neighbor, friend,—be a man! be the Christian 
you wish to be thought: consider that this fellow-man 
of ours has a dearly-loved family. If you have that 
card which the seconds gave you twelve years ago, don’t 
agonize or terrify him any more; write to him that “ the 
account is settled,” and give over to him that horrible 
deed of contract. I shall honor you till my death for it. 
I know that in any case you will do it one day before it 
is too late. You will not take advantage of that horrible 
power which blind fate has delivered into your hand, 
by. sending him his card empty to remind him that the 
time is up. You would pardon him then too. But do 
so now. This man’s life during its period of summer, 
has been clouded by this torturing obligation, which 
has hung continuously above his happiness; let the 
autumn sunbeams shine upon his head. Give, give him 
a hand of reconciliation now, at once!’ 


222 Debts of Honor 


“ Sarvélgyi insisted that he had never had any kind 
of ‘carteli’: how could I imagine that he would have 
the heart to maintain his revenge for years? His past 
and present life repudiated any such charge. He had 
never had any quarrel with Aronffy, and, had there 
been one, he would long ago have been reconciled to 
him. 

“T did not yet let the fellow out of my hands. I told 
him to think what he was doing. Aronffy had once 
told me that, should he perish in this affair, I was to 
continue the matter. I too knew a kind of duel, which 
surpassed even the American, because it destroyed a 
man by pin-pricks. So take care you don’t receive for 
your eternal adversary the neighboring heathen in ex- 
change for the pious, quiet and distant Aronffy. 

“ Sarvélgyi swore he knew nothing of the affair. He 
called God and all the saints to witness that he had not 
the very remotest share in Aronffy’s danger. 

“* Well, and why is Aronffy so low-spirited ? ’ 

““As if you should not know that,’ said the 
Pharisee, making a face of surprise: ‘not know any- 
thing about it? 

“*Well I will whisper it to you in confidence. Aronffy 
has not been happy in his family life. You know, of 
course, that when he came home he married, and im- 
mediately joined the rebel army. With a corps of vol- 
unteers he fought till the end of the war, and returned 
again to his family. But he has still that worm in his 
soul.’ ”’ 

It was well that the fire had already died out :—well 
that a dark cloud rolled up before the moon :—well that 
the narrator could not see the face of his listener, when 
he said that: 

“And I was fool enough to believe him. I credited 
the calumny with which the good fame of the angelic- 
ally pure wife of an honorable man had been defiled. 
Yes, I allowed myself to be deceived in this underhand 
way! I allowed myself to rest calm in the belief that 
there is many a sad man on the earth, whose wife is 
beautiful. 

“ Still, once I met by chance Aronffy’s mother, and 


Which Will Convert the Other 223 


produced before her the letter which had been accred- 
ited a fable. Her ladyship was very grateful, but 
begged me not to say a word about it to Aronffy. 

“ | believe that from that day she paid great atten- 
tion to her son’s behavior. 

“ Four years I had managed to keep myself at a re- 
spectful distance from Sarvolgyi’s person. 

“ But there came a day in the year, marked with red 
in my calendar, the anniversary of our departure from 
Heidelberg. 

“Three days after that sixteenth anniversary I re- 
ceived a letter, which informed me that Aronffy had 
on that red-letter day killed himself in his family circle.” 

The narrator here held silence, and, hanging down his 
hands, gazed out into the brilliant night; profound 
silence reigned in the room, only the large “ grand- 
father’s clock”’ ticked the past and future. 

““T don’t know what I should have done, had I met 
the hypocrite then: but just at that time he was away 
on a journey: he left behind a letter for me, in which 
he wrote that he, too, was sorry our unfortunate friend 
—our friend indeed!—had met with such a sad end: 
certainly family circumstances had brought him to it. 
He pitied his weakness of mind, and promised to pray 
for his soul! 

“ How pious. 

“He killed a man in cold blood, after having tor- 
tured him for sixteen years! Sent him the sentence of 
death in a letter! Forced the gracious, quiet, honorable 
man and father to cut short his life with his own hand! 

“With a cold, smiling countenance he took advan- 
tage of the fiendish power which fate and the too sensi- 
tive feeling of honor of a lofty soul had given into his 
hand; and then shrugged his shoulders, clasped his 
hands, turned his eyes to heaven, and said ‘ there is no 
room for the suicide with God.’ 

“Who is he, who gives a true man into the hands 
of the deceiver, that he may choke with his right hand 
his breath, with his left his soul. 


224 Debts of Honor 


“Well, philosopher, come; defend this pious man 
against me! Tell me what you have learned.” 

But the philosopher did not say what he had learned. 
Half dead and wholly insensible he lay back in his chair 
while the moon shone upon his upturned face with its 
full brilliance. 


CHAPTER XIV 
TWO GIRLS 


Ercut years had passed. 

The young man who buried himself on the plains 
had become a man, his face had lengthened, his beard 
grown round it; few of his old acquaintances would 
have recognized him. Even he himself had long ago 
become accustomed to his assumed name. 

In Topandy’s house the old order of things contin- 
ued: Czipra did the honors, presiding at the head of 
the table: Lorand managed the farm, living in the 
house, sitting at the table, speaking to the comrades who 
came and went “ per tu’’;* with them he drank and 
amused himself. 

Drank and amused himself! 

What else should a young man do, who has no aim 
in life? 

With Czipra, téte-a-téte, he spoke also “per tu;” 
before others he miladyed her. 

Once at supper Topandy said to Czipra and Lorand: 

“Children, in a few days another child will come to 
the house. The devil has carried off a very dear relation 
of mine with whom I was on such excellent terms that 
we never spoke to one another. I should not, logically, 
believe there is a devil in the world, should I? But 
for the short period during which he had carried 
that fellow away, I am willing to acquiesce in his ex- 
istence. To-day I have received a lamentabie letter from 
his daughter, written in a beautiful tone of sorrow; the 
poor child writes that immediately after her father’s 
death the house was swooped down upon by those Sad- 


* A sign of intimacy—addressing a person as “ thou.” 
225 


226 Debts of Honor 



























ducees who trample all piety under foot, the so-called 
creditors. They have seized everything and put it under 
seals; even her own piano; they have even put up at 
auction the pictures she drew with her own hand; and 
have actually sold the ‘ Gedenkbuch,’* in which so many 
clever and famous men had written so much absurdity: 
the tobacconist bought it for ten florins for the sake of 
its title-page. The poor girl has hitherto been educated 
by the nuns, to whom three quarters’ payment is due, 
and her position is such that she has no roof except her 
parasol beneath which she may take shelter. She has 
a mother in name, but her company she cannot fre- 
quent, for certain reasons; she has tried her other rela- 
tions and acquaintances in turn, but they haye all well- 
founded reasons for not undertaking to burden their 
families in this manner; she cannot go into service, not 
having been educated to it. Well, it occurred to her 
that she had, somewhere in the far regions of Asia, a 
half-mad relation—that is your humble servant: it 
would be a good plan to find him out at once, and take 
up her abode with him as a princess. I entirely indorse 
my niece’s argument: and have already sent her the 
money necessary for the journey, have paid the fees 
due, and have enabled her to appear among us in the 
style befitting her rank.” 

Topandy laughed loudly at his own production. 

It was only himself that laughed: the others did not 
share in it. 

“Well, there will be one more young lady in the 
house: a refined, graceful, sentimental woman-in-white, 
before whom people must take great care what they say, 
and who will probably correct the behavior of all of 
us. 

Czipra pushed her chair back angrily from the table. 

“ Oh, don’t be afraid. She will not correct you. You 
may be sure of that. You have absolute authority in the 
house, as you know already: what you command or or- 
der is accomplished, and against your will not even a cat 


*An album in which one writes something “as a souvenir.” 


Two Girls 227 


comes to our table. You remain what you were: mis- 
tress of life and death in the house. When you wish 
it, there is washing in the house, and everybody is 
obliged to render an account even of his last shirt; 
what you do not like in the place, you may throw out 
of the window, and you can buy what you wish. The 
new young lady will not take away from you a single 
one of those keys which hang on that silver chain dan- 
gling from your red girdle ; and if only she does not en- 
tice away our young friend, she will be unable to set up 
any opposition against you. And even in that event I 
shall defend you.” 

Czipra shrugged her shoulders defiantly. 

“Let hér do as she pleases.” 

“* And we two shall do as we please, shall we not?” 

“You,” said Czipra, looking sharply at Topandy 
with her black eyes. “ You will soon be doing what 
that young lady likes. I foresee it all. As soon as she 
puts her foot in, everybody will do as she does. When 
she smiles, everybody will smile at her in return. If she 
speaks German, the whole house will use that language ; 
if she walks on her tip-toes, the whole house will walk 
so; if her head aches, everybody in the house will speak 
in whispers; not as when poor Czipra had a burning 
fever and nine men came to her bed to sing a funeral 
song, and offered her brandy.” 

Topandy laughed still more loudly at these invec- 
tives: the poor gypsy girl fixed her two burning eyes 
on Lorand’s face and kept them there till they turned 
into two orbs swimming in water. Then she sprang 
up, threw down her chair and fled from the room. 

Topandy calmly picked up the overthrown chair and 
put it in its place, then he went after Czipra and a min- 
ute later brought her back on his arm into the dining- 
room, with an exceedingly humorous expression, and 
a courtesy worthy of a Spanish grandee, which the 
poor foolish gypsy girl did not understand in the least. 

So readily did she lose her temper, and so readily 
did she recover it again. She sat down again in her 


228 Debts of Honor 


place, and jested and laughed,—always and continu- 
ously at the expense of the finely-educated new-comer. 

Lorand was curious to know the name of the new 
member of the family. 

“The daughter of one Balnokhazy, P. C.” said To- 
pandy, “ Melanie, if I remember well.” 

Lorand was perplexed. <A face from the past! How 
strange that he should meet her there? 

Still it was so long since they had seen each other, 
that she would probably not recognize him. 

Melanie was to arrive to-morrow evening. Early in 
the morning Czipra visited Lorand in his own room. 

She found the young man before his looking-glass. 

“ Oho!” she said laughing, “ you are holding counsel 
with your glass to see whether you are handsome 
enough? Handsome indeed you are: how often must I 
say so? Believe me for once.” 

But Lorand was not taking counsel with his glass 
on that point: he was trying to see if he had changed 
enough. 

“Come now,” said Czipra with a certain indifference. 
“T will make you pretty myself: you must be even more 
handsome, so that young lady’s eyes may not be riveted 
upon me. Sit down, I will arrange your hair.” 

Lorand had glorious chestnut-brown curls, smooth as 
silk. Madame Balnokhazy had once fallen madly in 
love with those locks and Czipra was wont to arrange 
them every morning with her own hands: it was one 
of her privileges, and she understood it so well. 

Lorand was philosopher enough to allow others to do 
him a service, and permitted Czipra’s fine fingers the 
privilege of playing among his locks. 

“Don’t be afraid: you will be handsome to-day!” 
said Czipra, in naive reproach to the young fellow. 

Lorand jestingly put his arm round her waist. 

“Tt will be all of no avail, my dear Czipra, because 
we have to thrash corn to-day, and my hair will all be 
full of dust. Rather, if you wish to do me a favor, cut 
off my hair.” 





Two Girls 229 


Czipra was ready for that, too. She was Lorand’s 
“friseur’’ and Topandy’s “ coiffeur.” She found it 
quite natural. 

“Well, and how do you wish your hair? Short? 
Shall I leave the curls in front? ”’ 

“ Give me the scissors: I will soon show you,” said 
Lorand, and, taking them from Czipra’s hand, he gath- 
ered together the locks upon his forehead with one 
hand and with the other cropped them quite short, 
throwing what he had cut to the ground.—* So with the 
rest.” 

Czipra drew back in horror at this ruthless deed, 
feeling as pained as if those scissors had been thrust 
into her own body. Those beautiful silken curls on the 
ground! And now the rest must of course be cut just 
as short. 

Lorand sat down before her in a chair, from which 
he could look into the glass, and motioned to her to com- 
mence. Czipra could scarcely force herself to do so. 
So to destroy the beauty of that fair head, over which 
she had so often stealthily posed in a reverie! To crop 
close that thick growth of hair, which, when her fin- 
gers had played among its electric curls, had made her 
always feel as if her own soul were wrapt together with 
it. And she was to close-crop it like the head of some 
convict ! 

Yet there was a kind of satisfaction in the thought 
that another would not so readily take notice of him. 
She would make him so ugly that he would not quickly 
win the heart of the new-comer. Away with that Sam- 
sonian strength, down to the last solitary hair! This 
thought lent a merciless power to her scissors. 

And when Lorand’s head was closely shaven, he was 
indeed curious to see. It looked so very funny that he 
laughed at himself when he turned to the glass. 

The girl too laughed with him. She could not pre- 
vent herself from laughing to his face; then she turned 
away from him, leaned out of the window, and burst 
into another fit of lavghter. 


230 Debts of Honor 


Really it would have been difficult to distinguish 
whether she was laughing or crying. 

“Thank you, Czipra, my dear,” said Lorand, putting 
his arm round the girl’s waist. ‘‘ Don’t wait with din- 
ner for me to-day, for I shall be outside on the thresh- 
ing-floor.” 

Thereupon he left the room. 

Czipra, left to herself, before anyone could have en- 
tered, kneeled down on the floor, and swept up from the 
floor with her hands the curls she had cut off. Every 
one: not a single hair must remain for another. Then 
she hid the whole lovely cluster in her bosom. —, 
she would never take them out again. . . TS 

With that instinct, which nature has given to women 
only, Czipra felt that the new-comer would be her an- 
tagonist, her rival in everything, that the outcome 
would be a struggle for life and death between them. 

The whole day long she worried herself with ideas 
about the new adversary’s appearance. Perhaps she 
was some doll used to proud and noble attitudinising: 
let her come! It would be fine to take her pride down. 
An easy task, to crush an oppressed mind. She would 
steal away from the house, or fall into sickness by dint 
of much annoyance, and grow old before her time. 

Or perhaps she was some spoiled, sensitive, fragile 
chit, who came here to weep over her past, who would 
find some hidden reproach in every word, and would 
feel her position more and more unendurable day by 
day. Such a creature, too, would droop her head in 
shame—so that every morning her pillow would be be- 
dewed with tears. For she need not reckon on pity! Or 
perhaps she would be just the opposite: a light-hearted, 
gay, sprightly bird, who would find herself at home in 
every position. If only to-day were cheerful, she would 
not weep for yesterday, or be anxious for the morrow. 
Care would be taken to clip the wings of her good hu- 
mor: a far greater triumph would it be to make a weep- 
ing face of a smiling one. 

Or perhaps a languid, idle, good-for-nothing domes- 





Two Girls 231 


tic delicacy, who liked only to make toilettes, to sit for 
hours together before the mirror, and in the evening 
read novels by lamp-light. What a jest it would be to 
mock her, to make her stare at country work, to spoil 
her precious hands in the skin-roughening house-keep- 
ing work, and to laugh at her clumsiness. 

Be she what she might, she might be quite sure of 
finding an adversary who would accept no cry for 
mercy. 

Oh, it was wise to beware of Czipra! Czipra had 
two hearts, one good, the other bad: with the one she 
loved, with the other she hated, and the stronger she 
loved with the one, the stronger she hated with the 
other. She could be a very good, quiet, blessed crea- 
ture, whose faults must be discovered and seen through 
a magnifying-glass: but if that other heart were once 
awakened, the old one would never be found again. 

Every drop of Czipra’s blood wished that every drop 
of “ that other’s ” blood should change to tears. 

This is how they awaited Melanie at Lankadomb. 

Evening had not yet drawn in, when the carriage, 
which had been sent for Melanie to Tiszaftired station, 
arrived. 

The traveler did not wait till some one came to re- 
ceive her; she stepped out of the carriage unaided and 
found the verandah alone. Topandy met her in the 
doorway. They embraced, and he led her into the 
lobby. 

Czipra was waiting for her there. 

The gypsy girl was wearing a pure white dress, white 
apron, and no jewels at all. She had done her best to 
be simple, that she might surprise that town girl. Of 
course, she might have been robed in silk and lace, for 
she had enough and to spare. 

Yet she ought to have known that the new-comer 
could not be stylishly dressed, for she was in mourning. 

Melanie had on the most simple black dress, without 
any decoration, only round her neck and wrists were 
crochet lace trimmings. 

She was just as simple as Czipra. Her beautiful pale 


222 Debts of Honor 


face, with its still childish features, her calm quiet look, 
—all beamed sympathy around her. 

“My daughter, Czipra,” said Topandy, introducing 
them. 

Melanie, with that graciousness which is the mark of 
all ladies, offered her hand to the girl, and greeted her 
gently. 

“Good evening, Czipra.” 

Czipra bitterly inquired: 

“A foolish name, is it not?” 

“On the contrary, the name of a goddess, Czipra.” 

“What goddess? Pagan? ’’—the idea did not please 
Czipra: she knit her eyebrows and nodded in disap- 
proval. 

“A holy woman of the Bible was called by this name, 
Zipporah, * the wife of Moses.”’ 

“ Of the Bible?” The gypsy girl caught at the word, 


and looked with flashing eyes at Topandy, as who 


would say “Do you hear that? ’’—Only then did she 
take Melanie’s hand, but after that she did not release 
her hold of it any more. 

“We must know much more of that holy woman of 
the Bible! Come with me. I will show you your 
room.” 

Czipra remarked that they had kissed each other. 
Topandy shrugged his shoulders, laughed, and let them 
go alone. 

The newly arrived girl did not display the least em- 
barrassment in her dealing with Czipra: on the con- 
trary, she behaved as if they had been friends from 
childhood. 

She at once addressed Czipra in the greatest con- 
fidence, when the latter had taken her to the room set 
apart for her use. 

“You will have much trouble with me, my dear 
Czipra, at first, for I am very clumsy. I know now 
that I have learned nothing, with which I can do good 


* This play upon names is really only feasible in Magyar, 
where Zipporah-Czippora. 


Two Girls 233 


to myself or others. Iam so helpless. But you will be 
all the cleverer, I know: I shall soon learn from you. 
Oh, you will often find fault with me, when I make 
mistakes ; but when one girl reprcaches another it does 
not pra oh You will teach me housekeeping, will you 
not?” 

“You would like to learn?” 

“Of course. One cannot remain for ever a burden 
to one’s relations ; only in case I learn can I be of use, if 
some poor man takes me as his wife; if not I must take 
service with some stranger, and must know these things 
anyhow.” 

There was much bitterness in these words; but the 
orphan of the ruined gentleman said them with such 
calm, such peace of mind, that every string of Czipra’s 
heart was relaxed as when a damp mist affects the 
strings of a harp. 

Meanwhile they had brought Melanie’s travelling- 
trunk : there was only one, and no bonnet-boxes—almost 
incredible! 

“Very well—so begin at once to put your own 
things in order. Here are the wardrobes for your robes 
and linen. Keep them all neat. The young lady, whose 
stockings the chamber-maid has to look for, some in 
one room, some in another, will never make a good 
housekeeper.” 

Melanie drew her only trunk beside her and opened 
it: she took out her upper-dresses. 

There were only four, one of calico, one of batiste, 
then one ordinary, and one for special occasions. 

“They have become a little crumpled in packing. 
Please have them bring me an iron; I must iron them 
before I hang them up.” 

“Do you wish to iron them yourself?” 

“Naturally. There are not many of them: those I 
must make respectable—the servant can heat the iron. 
Oh, they must last a long time.” 

“Why haven’t you brought more with you?” 

Melanie’s face for a moment flushed a full rose—then 
she answered this indiscreet inquiry calmly: 


2.34 Debts of Honor 


“Simply, my dear Czipra, because the rest were 
seized by our creditors, who claimed them as a debt.” 

“Couldn’t you have anticipated them?” 

Melanie clasped her hands on her breast, and said 
with the astonishment of moral aversion: 

“How? By doing so I should have swindled them.” 

Czipra recollected herself. 

“ True; you are right.” 

Czipra helped Melanie to put her things in the cup- 
boards. With a woman’s critical eye, she examined 
everything. She found the linen not fine enough, 
though the work on it pleased her well. That was 
Melanie’s own handiwork. As regards books, there was 
only one in the trunk, a prayer-book. Czipra opened 
it and looked into it. There were steel plates init. The 
portrait of a beautiful woman, seven stars round her 
head, raising her tear-stained eyes to Heaven: and the 
picture of a kneeling youth, round the fair bowed head 
of whom the light of Heaven was pouring. Long did 
she gaze at the pictures. Who could those figures be? 

There were no jewels at all among the new-comer’s 
treasures. 

_ Czipra remarked that Melanie’s ear-rings were miss- 
ing. 

“You have left your earrings behind tou?” she 
asked, hiding any want of tenderness in the question by 
delivering it in a whisper. 

“Our solicitor told me,” said Melanie, with down- 
cast eyes, “that those earrings also were paid for by 
eas: money :—and he was right. I gave them to 

im. 

“ But the holes in your ears will grow together; I 
shall give you some of mine.” 

Therewith she ran to her room, and in a few moments 
returned with a pair of earrings. 

ene did not attempt to hide her delight at the 
gilt. 

“Why, my own had just such sapphires, only the 
stones were not so large.” 


Two Girls 235 


And she kissed Czipra, and allowed her to place the 
earrings in her ears. 

With the earrings came a brooch. Czipra pinned it 
in Melanie’s collar, and her eyes rested on the pretty 
collar itself: she tried it, looked at it closely and could 
not discover “ how it was made.” 

“Don’t you know that work? it is crochet, quite a 
new kind of fancy-work, but very easy. Come, I will 
show you right away.” 

Thereupon she took out two crochet needles and a 
reel of cotton from her work-case, and began to explain 
the work to Czipra: then she gave it to her to try. Her 
first attempt was very successful. Czipra had learned 
something from the new-comer, and remarked that she 
would learn much more from her. 

Czipra spent an hour with Melanie and an hour later 
came to the conclusion that she was only now beginning 
—to be a girl. 

At supper they appeared with their arms round each 
other’s necks. 

The first evening was one of unbounded delight to 
Czipra. 

This girl did not represent any one of those hateful 
pictures she had conjured up in the witches’ kettle of her 
imagination. She was no rival; she was not a great 
lady, she was a companion, a child of seventeen years, 
with whom she could prattle away the time, and before 
whom she must not choose her words so nicely, seeing 
that she was not so sensitive to insult. And it seemed 
that Melanie liked the idea of there being a girl in the 
house, whose presence threw a gleam of pleasure on the 
solitude. 

Czipra might also be content with Melanie’s conduct 
towards Lorand. Her eyes never rested on the young 
man’s face, although they did not avoid his gaze. She 
treated him indifferently, and the whole day only ex- 
changed words with him when she thanked him for fill- 
ing her glass with water. 

And indeed Lorand had reduced his external advan- 
tages to such a severe simplicity by wearing his hair 


236 Debts of Honor 


closely cropped, and his every movement was marked 
by that languid, lazy stooping attitude which is usually 
the special peculiarity of those who busy themselves 
with agricultural work, that Melanie’s eyes had no rea- 
son to be fixed specially upon him. 

Oh, the eyes of a young girl of seventeen summers 
cannot discover manly beauty under such a dust-stained, 
neglected exterior. 

Lorand felt relieved that Melanie did not recognize 


him. Nota single trace of surprise showed itself on her 


face, not a single searching glance betrayed the fact that 
she thought of the original of a well-known countenance 
when she saw this man who had met her by chance far 
away from home. Lorand’s face, his gait, his voice, all 
were strange to her. The face had grown older, the gait 
was that of a farmer, the old beautiful voice had deep- 
ened into a perfect baritone. 

Nor did they meet often, except at dinner, supper and 
breakfast. Melanie passed the rest of the day without 
a break, by Czipra’s side. 

Czipra was six years her senior, and she made a good 
protectress; that continuous woman’s chattering, of 
which Topandy had said, that, if one hour passed with- 
out its being heard, he should think he had come to the 
land of the dead :—a man grew to like that after awhile. 
And side by side with the quick-handed, quick-tongued 
maiden, whose every limb was full of electric springi- 
ness, was that charming clumsiness of the neophyte,— 
such a contrast! How they laughed together when 
Melanie came to announce that she had forgotten to put 
yeast in the cake, both her hands covered with sticky 
leaven, for all the world as if she were wearing winter 
gloves ; or when, at Cizpra’s command, she tried to take 
a little yellow downy chicken from the cold courtyard 
to a warm room, keeping up the while a lively duel with 
the jealous brood-hen, till finally Melanie was obliged 
to run. 

How much two girls can laugh together over a 
thousand such humorous nothings! 

And how they could chatter over a thousand still more 


Two Girls 237 


humorous nothings, when of an evening, by moonlight, 
they opened the window looking out on the garden, and 
lying on the worked window-cushions, talked till mid- 
night, of all the things in which no one else was inter- 
ested ? 

Melanie could tell many new things to Czipra which 
the latter delighted to hear. 

There was one thing which they had touched on once 
or twice jestingly, and which Czipra would have par- 
ticularly loved to extract from her. 

Melanie, now and again forgetting herself, would 
sigh deeply. 

“ Did that sigh speak to someone afar off?” 

Or when at dinner she left the daintiest titbit on her 
plate. 

“ Did some one think just now of some one far away, 
who is perhaps famishing? ” 

“ Oh, that * some one’ is not famishing ”’—whispered 
Melanie in answer. 

So there was “ somebody ” after all. 

That made Czipra glad. 

That evening during the conversation she introduced 
the subject. 

“Who is that ‘ some one?’” 

“ He is a very excellent youth: and is on close terms 
with many foreign princes. In a short time he won 
himself great fame. Everyone exalts him. He came 
often to our house during papa’s life-time, and they in- 
tended me to be his bride even in my early days.” 

“ Handsome?” inquired Czipra. That was the chief 
thing to know. 

Melanie answered this question merely with her eyes. 
But Czipra might have been content with the answer. 
He was at any rate as handsome a man in Melanie’s 
eyes as Lorand was in hers. 

** Shall you be his wife?” 

At this question Melanie held up her fine left hand 
before Czipra, raising the fourth finger higher than the 
rest. On it was a ring. 


238 Debts of Honor 


Czipra drew the ring off her finger and looked closely 
at it. She saw letters inside it. If she only knew those! 

“Ts this his name?” 

“ His initials.” 

“ He is called?” 

“ Joseph Gyali.” 

Czipra put the ring on again. She was very con- 
tented with this discovery. The ring of an old love, who 
was a handsome man, excellent, and celebrated, was 
there on her finger. Peace was hallowed. Now she be- 
lieved thoroughly in Melanie, she believed that the in- 
difference Mélanie showed towards Lorand was no 
mere pretence. The field was already occupied by an- 
other. 

But if she was quite at rest as regards Melanie, she 
could be less assured as to the peaceful intentions of 
Lorand’s eyes. 

How those eyes feasted themselves every day on Mel- 
anie’s countenance ! 

Of course, who could be indignant if men’s eyes were 
attracted by the “beautiful? ’* It has ever been their 
privilege. 

But it is the marvellous gift of woman’s eyes to be 
able to tell the distinction between look and _ look. 
Through the prism of jealousy the eye-beam is re- 
fracted to its primary colors; and this wonderful optical 
analysis says: this is the twinkle of curiosity, that the 
coquettish ogle, this the fire of love, that the dark-blue 
of abstraction. 

Czipra had not studied optics, but this optical analysis 
she understood very well. 

She did not seem to be paying attention; it seemed 
as if she did not notice, as if her eyes were not at work; 
yet she saw and knew everything. 

Lorand’s eyes feasted upon the beautiful maiden’s 
figure. 

Every time he saw her, they dwelt upon her: as the 
bee feasts upon the invisible honey of the flower, and — 
slowly a suspicion dawned upon Czipra. Every glance 





Two Girls 239 


was a home-returning bee who brings home the honey 
of love to a humming heart. 

Besides, Czipra might have known it from the fact 
that Lorand, ever since Melanie came to the house, had 
been more reserved towards her. He had found his 
presence everywhere more needful, that he might be so 
much less at home. 

Czipra could not bear the agony long. 

Once finding Lorand alone, she turned to him in 
wanton sarcasm. 

mits is certain, my friend Balint,” (that was Lorand’s 
alias) ‘ ‘that we are casting glances at that young girl 
in vain, for she has a fiancé already.” 

“Indeed?” said Lorand, caressing the girl’s round 
‘chin, for all the world as if he was touching some deli- 
cate flower-bud. 

“Why all this tenderness at once? If I were to look 
So much at a girl, I would long ago have taken care to 
‘see if she had a ring on her finger :—it is generally an 
engagement ring.’ 

“Well, and do I look very much at that girl?” en- 
quired Lorand in a jesting tone. 

“ As often as I look at you.” 

That was reproach and confession all in one. Czipra 
tried to dispose of the possible effect of this gentle 
speech at once, by laughing immediately. 

“My friend Balint! That young lady’s fiancé is a 
very great man. The favorite of foreign princes, rides 
in a carriage, and is called ‘ My Lord.’ He is a very 
handsome man, too: though not so handsome as you. 
A fine, pretty cavalier.” 

“ T congratulate her! ”’ said Lorand, smiling. 

“ Of course it is true; Melanie herself told me.—She 
told me his name, too—Joseph Gyali.” 

“Fa, ha, hat” 

Lorand, smilingly and good-humoredly pinching 
Czipra’s cheek, went on his way. He smiled, but with 
the poisonous arrow sticking in his heart! 

Oh, Czipra did herself a bad turn when she mentioned 
that name before Lorand! 


CHAPTER XV 
IF HE LOVES, THEN LET HIM LOVE! 


Loranp’s whole being revolted at what Czipra had 
told him. That girl was the bride of that fatal adver- 
sary! of that man for whose sake he was to die! And 
that man would laugh when they stealthily transferred 
him, the victim too sensible of honor, to the crypt, when 
he would dance with his newly won bride till morning 
dawned, and delight in the smile of that face, which 
could not even weep for the lost one. 

That thought led to eternal damnation. No, no: not 
to damnation: further than that, there and back again, 
back to that unspeakable circle, where feelings of honor 
remain in the background, and moral insensibility 
rules the day. That thought was able to drive out of 
Lorand’s heart the conviction, that when an honorable 
man has given his life or his honor into the hands of 
an adversary, of the two only the latter can be chosen. 

From that hour he pursued quite a different path of 
life. 

Now the work in the fields might go on without his 
supervision: there was no longer such need of his pres- 
ence. He had far more time for staying at home. 

Nor did he keep himself any farther away from the 
girls: he went after them and sought them; he was 
spirited in conversation, choice in his dress, and that 
he might display his shrewdness, he courted both 
girls at the same time, the one out of courtesy, the other 
for love. 

Topandy watched them smilingly. He did not mind 
whatever turn the affair took. He was as fond of 
Czipra as he was of Melanie, and fonder of the boy 


240 


Then Let Him Love 241 


than either. Of the three there would be only one pair; 
he would give his blessing to whichever two should 
come together. It was a lottery! Heaven forbid that 
a strange hand should draw lots for one. 

But Czipra was already quite clear about everything, 
It was not for her sake that Lorand stayed at home. 

She herself was forced to acknowledge the important 
part which Melanie played in the house, with her 
thoughtful, refined, modest behavior; she was so sensi- 
ble, so clever in everything. In the most delicate situa- 
tion she could so well maintain a woman’s dignity, while 
side by side she displayed a maiden’s innocence. When 
his comrades were at the table, Topandy strove always 
by ambiguous jokes, delivered in his cynical, good hu- 
mor, to bring a blush to the cheeks of the girls, who 
were obliged to do the honors at table; on such occa- 
sions Czipra noisily called him to order, while Melanie 
cleverly and spiritedly avoided the arrow-point of the 
jest, without opposing to it any foolish prudery, or cold 
insensibility ;—and how this action made her queen of 
every heart! 

Without doubt she was the monarch of the house: the 
dearest, most beautiful, and cleverest ;—hers was every 
triumph. 

And on such occasions Czipra was desperate. 

“Yet allin vain! For, however clever, and beautiful, 
and enchanting that other, I am still the real one. I 
feel and know it:—but I cannot prove it! If we could 
only tear out our hearts and compare them ;—but that 
is impossible.” 

Czipra was forced to see that everybody sported with 
her, while they behaved seriously with that other. 

And that completely poisoned her soul. 

Without any mental refinement, supplied with only 
so much of the treasure of moral reserve, as nature and 
instinct had grafted into her heart, with only a dreamy 
suspicion about the lofty ideas of religion and virtue, 
this girl was capable of murdering her whom they loved 
better than herself. 

Murder, but not as the fabled queen murdered the 


242 Debts of Honor 


fairy Hofehérke,* because the gnomes whispered un- 
tiringly in her ear “ Thou art beautiful, fair queen: but 
Hofehérke is still more beautiful.” Czipra wished to 
murder her but not so that she might die and then live 
again. 

She was a gypsy girl, a heathen, and in love. In- 
herited tendencies, savage breeding, and passion had 
brought her to a state where she could have such ideas. 

It was a hellish idea, the counsel of a restless devil 
who had stolen into a defenceless woman’s heart. 

Once it occurred to her to turn the rooms in the castle 
upside down; she found fault with the servants, drove 
them from their ordinary lodgings, dispersed them in 
other directions, chased the gentlemen from their rooms, 
under the pretext that the wall-papers were already 
very much torn: then had the papers torn off and the 
walls re-plastered. She turned everything so upside 
down that Topandy ran away to town, until the rooms 
should be again reduced to order. 

The castle had four fronts, and therefore there were 
two corridors crossing through at right angles: the 
chief door of the one opened on the courtyard, that 
of the other led into the garden. The rooms opened 
right and left from the latter corridor. 

During this great disorder Czipra moved Lorand into 
one of the vis-a-vis rooms. The opposite room she ar- 
ranged as Melanie’s temporary chamber. Of course it 
would not last long; the next day but one, order would 
be restored, and everyone could go back to his usual 
place. 

And then it was that wicked thoughts arose in her 
heart: “if he loves, then let him love!” 

At supper only three were sitting at table. Lorand 


*Little Snow-white, the step-daughter of the queen, who 
commanded her huntsman to bring her the eyes and liver of 
Ho6fehérke, thinking she would thus become the most beautiful 
of all, but he brought her those of a wild beast. The queen 
thought her rival was dead, but her magic mirror told her she 
was living still beyond hill and sea. 











Then Let Him Love 243 


was more abstracted than usual, and scarcely spoke a 
word to them: if Czipra addressed him, there was such 
embarrassment in his reply, that it was impossible not 
to remark it. 

But Czipra was in a particularly jesting mood to- 
day. 

“ My friend Balint, you are sleepy. Yet you had bet- 
ter take care of us at night, lest someone steal us.” 

“Lock your door well, my dear Czipra, if you are 
afraid.” 

“ How can I lock my door,” said Czipra smiling light- 
heartedly, “‘ when those cursed servants have so ruined 
the lock of every door at this side of the house that they 
would fly open at one push.” 

“Very well, I shall take care of you.” 

Therewith Lorand wished them good night, took his 
candle and went out. 

Czipra hurried Melanie too to depart. 

“ Let us’ go to bed in good time, as we must be early 
afoot to-morrow.” 

This evening the customary conversation at the win- 
dow did not take place. 

The two girls shook hands and wished each other 
good night. Melanie departed to her room. Czipra 
was sleeping in the room next to hers. 

When Melanie had shut the door behind her, Czipra 
blew out the candle in her own room, and remained in 
darkness. With her clothes on she threw herself on her 
bed, and then, resting her head on her elbow, listened. 

Suddenly she thought the opposite room door gently 
opened. 

The beating of her heart almost pierced through her 
bosom. 

“ Tf he loves, then let him love.” 

Then she rose from her bed, and, holding her breath, 
slipped to the door and looked through the keyhole into 
Melanie’s room.* 


*This was of course through the door that communicated 
between the rooms of Melanie and Czipra. 


244 Debts of Honor 


The candle was still burning there. 

But from her position she could not see Melanie. 
From the rustling of garments she suspected that Mel- 
anie was taking off her dress. Now with quiet steps she 
approached the table, on which the candle was burning. 
She had a white dressing-gown on, her hair half let 
down, in her hand that little black book, in which 
Czipra had so often admired those “ Glory” pictures 
without daring to ask what they were. 

Melanie reached the table, and laying the little pray- 
er-book on the shelf of her mirror, kneeled down, and, 
clasping her two hands together, rested against the cor- 
ner of the table and prayed. 

In that moment her whole figure was one halo of 
glory. 

She was beautiful as a praying seraph, like one of 
those white phantoms who rise with their airy figures 
to Heaven, palm-branches of glory in their hands. 

Czipra was annihilated. 

She saw now that there was some superhuman phe- 
nomenon, before which every passion bowed the knee, 
every purpose froze to crystals ;—the figure of a pray- 
ing maiden! He who stole a look at that sight lost 
every sinful emotion from his heart. 

Czipra beat her breast in dumb agony. “ She can fly, 
while [ can only crawl on the ground.” 

When the girl had finished her prayer she opened the 
book to find those two glory-bright pictures, which she 
kissed several times in happy rapture :—as the sufferer 
kisses his benefactor’s hands, the orphan his father’s 
and mother’s portraits, the miserable defenceless man 
the face of God, who defends in the form of a column 
of cloud him who bows his head under its shadow. 

Czipra tore her hair in her despair and beat her brow 
upon the floor, writhing like a worm. 

At the noise she made Melanie darted up and has- 
tened to the door to see what was the matter with 
Czipra. 

As soon as she noticed Melanie’s approach, Czipra 
slunk away from her place and before Melanie could 





Then Let Him Love 245 


open the door and enter, dashed through the other door 
into the corridor. 

Here another shock awaited her. 

In the corner of the corridor she found Lorand sit- 
ting beside a table. On the table a lamp was burning; 
before Lorand lay a book, beside him, resting against 
his chair, a “ tomahawk.” * 

“ What are you doing here?”’ inquired Czipra, start- 
ing back. 

“T am keeping guard over you,” answered Lorand. 
“As you said your doors cannot be locked, I shall stay 
here till morning lest some one break in upon you.” 

Czipra slunk back to her room. She met Melanie, 
who, candle in hand, hastened towards her, and asked 
what was the matter. 

“ Nothing, nothing. I heard a noise outside. It 
frightened me.” 

No need of simulation, for she trembled in every 
limb. 

“You afraid?” said Melanie, surprised. “ See, I am 
not afraid. It will be good for me to come to you and 
sleep with you to-night.” 

“Yes, it will,” assented Czipra. “ You can sleep on 
my bed.” 

“And you?” 

“{?” Czipra inquired with a determined glance. 
“ Oh, just here!” 

And therewith she threw herself on the floor before 
the bed. 

Melanie, alarmed, drew near to her, seized her arm, 
and tried to raise her. She asked her: “ Czipra, what 
is the matter with you? Tell me what has happened?” 
—Czipra did not answer, did not move, did not open her 
eyes. 

Melanie seeing she could not reanimate her, rose in 
despair, and, clasping her hands, panted: 


,’ 


*The Magyar weapon is the so-called “ fokos,”’ which is 
much smaller than a tomahawk, but is set on a long handle 
like a walking stick, and only to be used with the hand in deal- 
ing blows, not for throwing purposes. 


246 Debts of Honor 


“Great Heavens! what has happened? ”—Then 
Czipra suddenly started up and began to laugh. 

“Ha ha! Now I just managed to frighten you.” 

Therewith rolling uncontrolledly on the floor, she 
laughed continuously like one who has succeeded in 
playing a good joke on her companion. 

“How startled I was!” panted Melanie, pressing 
her hands to her heaving breast. 

“Sleep in my bed,” Czipra said. “I shall sleep here 
on the floor. You know | am accustomed to sleep on 
the ground, covered with rugs. 


““* My mother was a gypsy maid 
She taught me to sleep on the ground, 
In winter to walk with feet unbound; 
In a ragged tent my home was made. 


999 


She sang Melanie this bizarre song twice in her pe- 
culiar melancholy strain, and then suddenly threw 
around her the rug which lay on the bed, put one arm 
under her head, and remained quite motionless; she 
would not reply any longer to a single word of Mel- 
anie’s. 

The next day Topandy returned from town; scarce 
had he taken off his traveling-cloak, when Czipra burst 
in upon him. 

She seized his hand violently, and gazing wildly into 
his eyes, said: 

“Sir, I cannot live longer under such conditions. I 
shall kill myself. Teach me to pray.” 

Topandy looked at her in astonishment and shrugged 
his shoulders sarcastically. 

“Whatever possessed you to break in so upon me? 
Do you think I come from some pilgrimage to Bodajk, * 
all my pockets full of saints’ fiddles, of beads, and of 
gingerbread-saints? Oram Ia Levite? AmTIa 
‘monk’ that you look to me for prayer?” 





*A place visited by pilgrims, like Lourdes, etc., it is in Fehére 
megye (white county). 








Then Let Him Love 247 


“Teach me to pray. I have long enough besought 
you to do so, and | can wait no longer.” 

“Go and don’t worry me. I don’t know myself where 
to find what you want.” 

“It is not true. You know how to read. You have 
been taught everything. You only deny knowledge of 
God, because you are ashamed before Him; but | long 
to see His face! Oh, teach me to pray!” 

“T know nothing, my dear, except the soldier’s 
prayer.” * 

“Very well. I shall learn that.” 

“T can recite it to you.” 

“ Weil, tell it to me.” 

Czipra acted as she had seen Melanie do: she kneeled 
down before the table: clasping her hands devotedly 
and resting against the edge of the table. 

Topandy turned his head curiously: she was taking 
the matter seriously. 

Then he stood before her, put his two hands behind 
him, and began to recite to her the soldier’s prayer. 


* Adjon Isten harom ‘ B’-ét, 
Harom ‘ F’-ét, harom ‘ P ’-ét. 
Bort, buzat, békességet,, 
Fat, fiivet, feleséget, 
Pipat, puskat, patrontast, 
Es egy butykos palinkat ! 
Ikétum, pikétum, holt! berdo! vivat!” ¢ 


The poor little creature muttered the first sen- 
tences with such pitiable devotion after that godless 
mouth :—but, when the thing began to take a definitely 
jesting turn, she suddenly leaped up from her knees in 
a rage, and before Topandy could defend himself, dealt 


*i. e., Blasphemy. 

t God grant three ‘ B-s,’ three ‘ F-s,’ and three ‘ P-s.’- Win 
wheat, peace, wood, grass, wife, pipe, rifle, cartridge-case, an 
a little cask of brandy. . . . Hurrah! hurrar!” It is quite im- 
possible to render the verse into English in any manner that 
would reproduce the original, so I have given the original 
“Magyar with a literal translation. 


248 Debts of Honor 


him such a healthy box on the ears that it made them 
sing; then she darted out and banged the door after 
her. 

Topandy became like'a pillar of salt in his astonish- 
ment. He knew that Czipra had a quick hand, but that 
she would ever dare to raise that tiny hand against her 
master and benefactor, because of a mere trifling jest, 
he was quite incapable of understanding. 

She must be in some great trouble. 

Though he never said a word, nor did Czipra, about 
the blow he had received, and though when next they 
met they were the same towards one another as they 
had ever been, Topandy ventured to make a jest at 
table about this humorous scene, saying to Lorand: 

“ Balint, ask Czipra to repeat that prayer which she 
has learned from me: but first seize her two hands.” 

“Oho!” threatened Czipra, her face burning red. 
“Just play some more of your jokes upon me. Your 
lives are in my hands: one day I shall put belladonna in 
the food, and poison us all together.” 

Topandy smilingly drew her towards him, smoothing 
her head; Czipra sensitively pressed her master’s hand 
to her lips, and covered it with kisses ;—then put him 
aside and went out into the kitchen,—to break plates, 
and tear the servants’ hair. 


CHAPTER XVI 
THAT RING 


THE tenth year came: it was already on the wane. 
And Lorand began to be indifferent to the prescribed 
fatal hour. 

He was in love. 

This one thought drove all others from his mind. 
Weariness of life, atheism, misanthropy,—all disap- 
peared from his path like will-o’-the-wisps before the 
rays of the sun. 

And Melanie liked the young fellow in return. 

She had no strong passions, and was a prudent girl, 
yet she confessed to herself that this young man pleased 
her. His features were noble, his manner gentle, his 
position secure enough to enable him to keep a wife. 

Many a time did she walk with Lorand under the 
shade of the beautiful sycamores, while Czipra sat alone 
beside her “czimbalom”’ and thrashed out the old 
souvenirs of the plain,—alone. 

Lorand found it no difficult task to remark that Mel- 
anie gladly frequented the spots he chose, and listened 
cheerfully to the little confessions of a sympathetic 
heart. Yet he was himself always reserved.—And that 
ring was always there on her finger. If only that magic 
band might drop down from there! Two years had al- 
ready passed since her father’s death had thrown her 
into mourning; she had long since taken off black 
dresses ; nor could she complain against “ the bread of 
orphanhood.” For Topandy supplied her with all that 
a woman holds dear, just as if she had been his own 
child. 

One afternoon Lorand found courage enough to 


249 


250 Debts of Honor 


take hold of Melanie’s hand. They were standing ona 
bridge that spanned the brook which was winding 
through the park, and, leaning upon its railing, were 
gazing at the flowers floating on the water—or perhaps 
at each other’s reflection in the watery mirror. 

Lorand grasped Melanie’s hand and asked: 

“Why are you always so sad? Whither do those 
everlasting sighs fly?” 

Melanie looked into the youth’s face with her large, 
bright eyes, and knew from his every feature that heart 
had dictated that question to heart. 

“You see, I have enough reason for being sad in that 
no one has ever asked me that question; and that had 
someone asked me I could never have answered it.” 

“ Perhaps the question is forbidden? ” 

“ T have allowed him, whom I allowed to remark that 
I have a grief, also to ask me the reason of it. You 
see, I have a mother, and yet I have none.” 

The girl here turned half aside. 

Lorand understood her well :—but that was just the 
subject about which he desired to know more: why, his 
own fate was bound up with it. 

“What do you mean, Melanie?” 

“Tf I tell you that, you will discover that I can have 
no secret any more in this world from you.” 

Lorand said not a word, but put his two hands to- 
gether with a look of entreaty. 

“ About ten years have passed since mother left home 
one evening, never to return again. Public talk con- 
nected her departure with the disappearance of a young 
man, who lived with us, and who, on account of some 
political crime, was obliged to fly the same evening.” 

“His name?” inquired Lorand. 

“Lorand Aronffy, a distant relation of ours, He was 
considered very handsome.” 

“And since then you have heard no news of your 
mother?” 

“Never a word. I believe she is somewhere in Ger- 
many under a false name, as an actress, and is seeking 
the world, in order to hide herself from the world.” 





That Ring 251 


“ And what became of the young man? She is no 
longer with him?” 

“ As far as I know he went away to the East Indies, 
and from thence wrote to his brother Desiderius, leav- 
ing him his whole fortune—since that time he has never 
written any news of himself. Probably he is dead.” 

Lorand breathed freely again. Nothing was known 
of him. People thought he had gone to India. 

“In a few weeks will come again the anniversary of 
that unfortunate day on which I lost my mother, my 
mother who is still living: and that day always ap- 
proaches me veiled: feelings of sorrow, shame, and 
loneliness involuntarily oppress my spirit. You now 
know my most awful secret, and you will not condemn 
me for it?” 

Lorand gently drew her delicate little hand towards 
his lips, and kissed its rosy finger-tips, while all the time 
he fixed his eyes entreatingly on that ring which was 
on one of her fingers. 

Melanie understood the inquiry which had been so 
warmly expressed in that eloquent look. 

“You ask me, do you not, whether I have not some 
even more awful secret?” 

Lorand tacitly answered in the affirmative. 

Melanie drew the ring off her finger and held it up 
in her hand. 

“Tt is true—but it is for me no longer a living se- 
cret. I am already dead to the person to whom this 
secret once bound me. When he asked my hand, I was 
still rich, my father was a man of powerful influence, 
Now I am poor, an orphan and alone. Such rings are 
usually forgotten.” 

At that moment the ring fell out of her hand and 
missing the bridge dropped into the water, disappearing 
among the leaves of the water-lilies. 

“Shall I get it out?” inquired Lorand. 

Melanie gazed at him, as if in reverie, and said: 

“Leave it there... .” 

Lorand, beside himself with happiness, pressed to his 
lips the beautiful hand left in his possession, and 


aicg Debts of Honor 


showered hot kisses, first on the hand, then on its owner. 
From the blossoming trees flowers fluttered down upon 
their heads, and they returned with wreathed brows 
like bride and bridegroom. 

Lorand spoke that day with Topandy, asking him 
whether a long time would be required to build the 
steward’s house, which had so long been planned. 

“Oho!” said Topandy, smiling, “I understand. It 
may so happen that the steward will marry, and then 
he must have a separate lodging where he may take his 
wife. It will be ready in three weeks.” 

Lorand was quite happy. 

He saw his love reciprocated, and his life freed from 
its dark horror. 

Melanie had not merely convinced him that in him 
she recognized Lorand Aronffy no more, but also 
calmed him by the assurance that everyone believed the 
Lorand Aronffy of yore to be long dead and done for: 
no one cared about him any longer; his brother had 
taken his property, with the one reservation that he al- 
ways sent him secretly a due portion of the income. Be- 
sides that one person, no one knew anything. And he 
would be silent for ever, when he knew that upon his 
further silence depended his brother’s life. 

Love had stolen the steely strength of Lorand’s mind 
away. 

He had become quite reconciled to the idea that to 
keep an engagement, which bound anyone to violate the 
laws of God, of man, and of nature, was mere folly. 

Who could accuse him to his face if he did not keep 
it? Who could recognize him again? In this position, 
with this face, under this name,—was he not born 
again? Was that not a quite different man whose life 
he was now leading? Had he not already ended that 
life which he had played away then? 

He would be a fool who carried his feeling of honor 
to such extremes in relations with dishonorable men; 
and, finally, if there were the man who would say “ it is 
a crime,” was there no God to say “ it was virtue?” 

He found a strong fortress for this self-defence 





That Ring 253 


in the walls of their family vault, in the interior 
of which his grandmother had uttered such an awful 
curse against the last inhabitant. Why, that implied 
an obligation upon him too. And this obligation was 
also strong. Two opposing obligations neutralize each 
other. It was his duty rather to fulfil that which he 
owed to a parent, than that which he owed to his mur- 
derer. 

These are all fine sophisms. Lorand sought in them 
the means of escape. 

And then in those beautiful eyes. Could he, on whom 
those two stars smiled, die? Could he wish for anni- 
hilation, at the very gate of Heaven? 

And he found no small joy in the thought that he 
was to take that Heaven away from the opponent, who 
would love to bury him down in the cold earth. 

Lorand began to yield himself to his fate. He de- 
sired to live. He began to suspect that there was some 
happiness in the world. Calm, secret happiness, only 
known to those two beings who have given it to each 
other by mutual exchange. 

We often see this phenomenon in life. A handsome 
cavalier, who was the lion of society, disappears from 
the perfumed drawing-room world, and years after can 
scarcely be recognized in the country farmer, with his 
rough appearance and shabby coat. A happy family 
life has wrought this change in him. It is not possible 
that this same happy feeling which could produce that 
out of the brilliant, buttoned dress-coat, could let down 
the young man’s pride of character, and give him in its 
stead an easy-going, wide and water-proof work-a-day 
blouse, could give him towards the world indifference 
and want of interest? Let his opponent cry from end 
to end of the country with mocking guffaws that 
Lorand Aronffy is no cavalier, no gentleman; the smile 
of his wife will be compensation for his lost pride. 

Now the only thing he required was the eternal 
silence of the one man, who was permitted to know of 
his whereabouts, his brother. 

Should he make everything known to him?—give 


254 Debts of Honor 


entirely into his hands the duel he had accepted, his 
marriage and the power that held sway over his life, 
that he might keep off the threatening terror which had 
hitherto kept him far from brother and parents? 

It was a matter that must be well considered and re- 
flected upon. 

Lorand became very meditative some days later. 

Once after dinner Czipra grasped his hand and said 
playfully: 

“You are thinking very deeply about something. 
You are pale. Come, I will tell you your fortune. 

“ My fortune? ” 

“ Of course: I shall read the cards for you: you know 


** * A gypsy woman was my mother, 
Taught me to read the cards of fortune, 
In that surpassing many wishes.’ ’”’ 


“Very well, my dear Czipra: then tell me my for- 
tune.” 

Czipra was delighted to be able to see Lorand once 
more alone in her strange room. She made him 
sit down on the velvet camp-stool, took her place on the 
tiger-skin and drew her cards from her pocket. For 
two years she had always had them by her. They were 
her sole counsellors, friends, science, faith, worship— 
the sooth-saying cards. 

A person, especially a woman, must believe some- 
thing! 

At first she shuffled the cards, then, placing them on 
her hand offered them to Lorand. 

“ Here they are, cut them: the one, whose future is 
being told, must cut. Not with the left hand, that is 
not good. With the right hand, towards you.” 

Lorand did so, to please her. 

Czipra piled the cards in packs before her. 

Then, resting her elbows on her knees and laying her 
beautiful sun- -goldened face upon her hand she very 
carefully examined the well-known picture-cards. 

The knave of hearts came just in the middle. 





That Ring 255 


“Some journey is before you,” the gypsy girl began 
to explain, with a serious face. “ You will meet the 
mourning woman. Great delight. The queen of hearts 
is in the same row :—well met. But the queen of jeal- 
ousy * and the murderer * stand between them and sep- 
arate them. The dog * means faithfulness, the cat * 
slyness. The queen of melancholy stands béside the 
dog.—Take care of yourself, for some womar, who is 
angered, wishes to kill you.” 

Lorand looked with such a pitying glance at Czipra 
that she could not help reading the young man’s 
thoughts. 

She too replied tacitly. She pressed three fingers to 
her bosom, and silently intimated that she was not 
“that” girl. The yellow-robed woman, the queen of 
jealousy in the cards, was some one else. She placed 
her pointing fingers to the green-robed—that queen of 
melancholy. And Lorand remarked that Czipra had 
long been wearing a green robe, like the green-robed 
lady in the fortune-telling cards. 

Czipra suddenly mixed the cards together: 

“Let us try once more. Cut three times in succes- 
sion. That is right.” 

She placed the cards out again in packs. 

Lorand noticed that as the cards came side by side, 
Czipra’s face suddenly flushed; her eyes began to blaze 
with unwonted fire. 

“See, the queen of melancholy is just beside you, on 
the far side the murderer. The queen of jealousy and 
the queen of hearts are in the opposite corner. On the 
other side the old lady. Above your head a burning 
house. Beware of some great misfortune. Some one 
wishes to cause you great sorrow, but some one will de- 
fend you.” 

Lorand did not wish to. embitter the poor girl by 
laughing in her face at her simplicity. 


*These prophecies are made with Magyar cards and the 
gypsy girl pointing at certain cards, gives an interpretation of 
her own to them. 


256 Debts of Honor 


“ Get up now, Czipra, enough of this play.” 

Czipra gathered the cards up sadly. But she did not 
accept Lorand’s proffered hand, she rose alone. 

“ Well, what shall I do, when I don’t understand any- 
thing else?” 

“Come, play my favorite air for me on the czimba- 
lom. It is such a long time since I heard it.” 

Czipra was accustomed to acquiesce : she immediately 
took her seat beside her instrument, and began to beat 
out upon it that lowland reverie, of which so many had 
wonderingly said that a poet’s and an artist’s soul had 
blended therein. 

At the sound of music Topandy and Melanie came in 
from the adjoining rooms. Melanie stood behind Czi- 
pra; Topandy drew a chair beside her, and smoked 
furiously. 

Czipra shruck the responsive strings and meantime 
remarked that Lorand all the while fixed his eyes in 
happy rapture upon the place where she sat; though 
not upon her face, but beyond, above, upon the face of 
that girl standing behind her. Suddenly the czimbalom- 
sticks fell from her hand. She covered her face with 
her two hands and said panting: 

“ Ah—this pipe-smoke is killing me.” 

For answer Topandy blew a long mouthful play- 
fully into the girl’s face——She must accustom herself 
to it: and then he hinted to Lorand that they should 
leave that room and go where unlimited freedom ruled. 

But Czipra began to put the strings of the czimbalom 
out of tune with her tuning-key. 

“Why did you do that?” inquired Melanie. 

ze Because I shall never play on this instrument 
again.” 

“Why not?” 

“You will see it will be so: the cards always fore- 
tell a coffin for me; if you do not believe me, come and 
see for yourself.” 

Therewith she spread the cards again out on the 
table, and in sad triumph pointed to the picture por- 
trayed by the cards. 


That Ring 257 


“ See, now the coffin is here under the girl in green.” 

“Why, that is not you,” said Melanie, half jestingly, 
half encouragingly, ‘ but you are here.” 

And she pointed with her hand to the queen of 
hearts. 

But Czipra—saw something other than what had been 
shown her. She suddenly seized Melanie’s tender wrist 
with her iron-strong right hand, and pointed with her 
ill-foreboding first finger to that still whiter blank cir- 
cle remaining on the white finger of her white hand. 

‘Where has that ring gone to?” 

Melanie’s face flushed deeply at these words, whiie 
Czipra’s turned deathly pale. The black depths of hell 
were to be seen in the gypsy girl’s wide-opened eyes. 


CHAPTER XVII 
THE YELLOW-ROBED WOMAN IN THE CARDS 


LoranpD deferred as long as possible the time for com- 
ing to an agreement with Desiderius as to what they 
should both do, when the fafal ten years had passed by. 

His mother and grandmother would be sure to press 
the latter, when the defined period was over, to tell them 
of Lorand’s whereabouts. But if they learned the story 
and sought him out, there would be an end to his saving 
alias: the happy man who was living in the person of 
Balint Tatray would be obliged to yield place to Lorand 
Aronffy who would have to choose between death and 
the sneers of the world. 

When he had made Desiderius undertake, ten years 
before, not to betray his whereabouts to his parents, he 
had always calculated and intended to fulfil his fatal ob- 
ligation. Desiderius alone would be acquainted with the 
end, and would still keep from the two mothers the se- 
cret history of his brother. They had during this time 
become accustomed to knowing that he was far from 
them, and his brother would, to the day of their death, 
always put them under the happy delusion that their 
son would once again knock at the door, and would 
show them the letters his brother had written; while he 
would in reality long have gone to the place, from 
whence men bring no messages back to the light of the 
sun. Yet the good peaceful mothers would every day 
lay a place at table for the son they expected, when the — 
glass had long burst of its own accord. 

In place of this cold, clean, transparent dream is now 
that hot chaos. What should he do now that he wished 
to live, to enjoy life, to see happy days? 

Wherever he would go, in the street, in the field, in 


258 





The Yellow-Robed Woman 259 


the house, everywhere he would feel himself walking 
in that labyrinth; everywhere that endless chain would 
clank after him, which began again where it had ended. 

He did not even notice, when some one passed him, 
whether he greeted him or not. 

To escape, to exchange his word of honor for his 
life, to shut out the whole world from his secret-—what 
has pride to say to that?—what the memory of the 
father who in a like case bowed before his self-pride 
and cast his life and happiness as a sacrifice before the 
feet of his honor? What would the tears of the two 
mothers say?—how could tender-handed love fight 
alone against so strong adversaries? 

How could Balint Tatray shake off from himself that 
whole world which cleaved like a sea of mud to Lorand 
Aronffy? 

As he proceeded in deep reflection beside the village 
houses, his hat pressed firmly down over his eyes, he 
did not even notice that from the other direction a lady 
was crossing the rough road, making straight for him, 
until as she came beside him she addressed him with af- 
fected gaiety: 

“Good day, Lorand.” 

The young fellow, startled at hearing his name, 
looked up amazed and gazed into the speaker’s face. 

She, with the cheery smile of undoubted recognition, 
grasped his hand. 

“Yes, yes! I recognized you again after so long a 
time had passed, though you know me no more, my dear 
Lorand.” 

Oh! Lorand knew her well enough! And that woman 
—was Madame Balnokhazy..... 

Her face still possessed the beautiful noble features of 
yore; only in her manner the noblewoman’s graceful 
dignity had given way to a certain unpleasant free- 
dom which is the peculiarity of such women as are 
often compelled to save themselves from all kinds of 
delicate situations by humorous levity. 

She was dressed for a journey, quite fashionably, 
albeit a little creased. 


260 Debts of Honor 


“You here?” inquired Lorand, astonished. 

“Certainly: quite by accident. I have just left my 
carriage at the Sarvolgyi’s. I have won a big suit in 
chancery, and have come to the ‘old man’ to see if I 
could sell him the property, which he said he was ready 
to purchase. Then I shall take my daughter home with 
me. 

© dadeed =) 

“ Of course—poor thing, she has lived long enough in 
orphan state in the house of a half-madman. But be so 
kind as to give me your arm to lean on: why I believe 
you are still afraid of me: it is so difficult, you know, 
for some one who is not used to it, to walk along these 
muddy rough country roads.—I am going to sell my 
property which I have won, because we must go to live 
in Vienna.” 

* Indeed?” 

“Because Melanie’s intended lives there too.” 

“ Indeed? ” 

“ Perhaps you would know him too,—you were once 
good friends—Pepi Gyali!” 

“ Indeed? ” 

“Oh, he has made a great career! An extraordi- 
narily famous man. Quite a wonder, that young 
man!” 

“ Indeed?” 

“ But you only taunt me with your series of ‘ indeeds.’ 
Tell me how you came here. How have I found you?” 

“ T am steward here on Mr. Topandy’s estate! ” 

“ Steward! Ha ha! To your kinsman?” 

“ He does not know I am his kinsman.” 

“So you are incognito? Ever since then? Just like 
me: I have used six names since that day. That is 
famous. And now we meet by chance. So much the 
better; at least you can lead me to Topandy’s house: 
the atheist’s dogs will not tear me to pieces if I am 
under your protection—But after that you must help 
again to defend me.” 

Lorand was displeased by the fact that this woman 


That Yellow-Robed Woman 261 


turned into jest those memories in which the shame of 
both lay buried. 

Topandy was on the verandah of the castle in com- 
pany with the girls when Lorand led in the strange 
lady. 

Lorand went first to Melanie: 

“ Here is the one you have so often sighed after,”. . . 
... then turning to Topandy—‘‘ Madame Balnok- 
hazy.” 

For a moment Melanie was taken aback. She merely 
stared in astonishment at the new arrival, as if it were 
difficult to recognize her at once, while her mother, with 
a passion quite dramatic, rushed towards her, embraced 
her, clasped her to her bosom, and covered her with 
kisses. She sobbed and kneeled before her; as one 
may see times without number in the closing scene of 
the fifth act of any pathetic drama. 

“ How beautiful you have become! What an angel! 
My darling, only, beloved Melanie!—for whom 
] prayed every day, of whom every day I 
dreamed.—Well, tell me, have you thought sometimes 
of me?” 

Melanie whispered in her mother’s ear: 

“Later, when we are alone.” 

The woman understood that well (“later when we 
are alone, we can talk of cold, prosaic things: but when 
they see us, let us weep, faint, and embrace.) This 
scene of meeting was going to begin anew, only To- 
pandy was good enough to kindly request her ladyship 
to step into the room, where space was confined, and 
circumstances are more favorable to dramatic episodes. 
Madame Balnokhazy then became gay and talkative. 
She thanked Topandy (the old atheistical fool) thou- 
sands, millions of times, for giving a place of refuge to 
her child, for guarding her only treasure. Then she 
looked around to see whom else she had to thank. She 
saw Czipra. 

“Why,” she said to Lorand, “ you have not yet in- 
troduced me to your wife.” 


262 Debits of Honor 


Everybody became embarrassed—with the exception 
of Topandy, who answered with calm humor: 

“‘ She is my ward, and has been so many years.” 

“Oh! A thousand apologies for my clumsiness. I 
certainly thought she was already married.” 

Madame Balnokhazy had time to remark that Czi- 
pra’s eyes, when they looked upon Lorand, seemed 
like the eyes of faithfulness: and she had a delicious op- 
portunity of cutting to the heart two, if not three peo- 
ple. 

“Well, it seems to me what is not may be, may it not, 
‘Lorand?’” 

“ Lorand!” cried three voices in one. 

“There we are! Well I have betrayed you now. But 
what is the ultimate good of secrecy here between good 
friends and relations? Yes, he is Lorand Aronffy, a 
dear relation of ours. And you had not yet recognized 
him, Melanie? ” 

Melanie turned as white as the wall. 

Lorand answered not a word. 

Instead of answering he stepped nearer to Topandy, 
who grasped his hand, and drew him towards him. 

Madame Balnokhazy did not allow anyone else to 
utter a word. 

“T shall not be a burden long, my dear uncle. I have 
taken up my residence here in the neighborhood, with 
Mr. Sarvoélgyi, who is going to buy our property; we 
have just won an important suit in chancery.” 

“ Indeed?” 

Madame Balnokhazy did not explain the genesis of 
the suit in chancery any further to Topandy, who had 
himself now fallen into that bad habit of saying, “ in- 
deed ” to everything, as Lorand did. 

“For that purpose I must enjoy myself a few days 
here.” 

“ Indeed?” 

“T hope, dear uncle, you will not deny me the pleas- 
ure of being able to have Melanie all this time by my 
side. I should surely have found it much more proper 
to take up my quarters directly here in your house, if 





That Yellow-Robed Woman 263 


Sarvolgyi had not been kind enough to previously offer 
his hospitality.” 

“Indeed? ”’ (Topandy knew sometimes how to say 
very mocking “ indeeds.’’ ) 

“So please don’t offer any objections to my request 
that I may take Melanie to myself for these few days. 
Later on J shall bring her back again, and leave her 
here until fortune desires you to let us go forever.” 

At this point Madame Balnokhazy put on an ex- 
tremely matronly face. She wished him to understand 
what she meant. 

“T find your wish very natural,” said Topandy 
briefly, looking again in the woman’s face as one who 
would say “ What else do you know for our amuse- 
ment ?”’ 

“ Till then I render you endless thanks for taking the 
part of my poor deserted orphan. Heaven will reward 
you for your goodness.” 

“T didn’t do it for payment.” 

Madame Balnokhazy laughed modestly, as though in 
doubt whether to understand a joke when the inhabit- 
ants of higher spheres were under consideration. 

“ Dear uncle, you are still as jesting as ever in cer- 
tain respects.” 

“As godless—you wished to say, did you not? In- 
deed I have changed but little in my old age.” 

“Oh we know you well!” said the lady in a voice of 
absolute grace: “you only show that outwardly, but 
everyone knows your heart.” 

“ And runs before it when he can, does he not?” 

“Oh, no: quite the contrary,” said Madame apolo- 
getically, ‘don’t misinterpret our present departures 
to prove how much we all think of that beneficial pub- 
lic life which you are leading. I shall whisper one word 
to you, which will convince you of our most sincere re- 
spect for you.” 

That one word she did whisper to Topandy, resting 
her gloved hand on his shoulder—: 

“T wish to ask my dear uncle to give Melanie 
away, when Heaven brings round the happy day.” 


264 Debts of Honor 


At these words Topandy smiled: and, putting Ma- 
dame Balnokhazy’s hand under his arm, said: 

“With pleasure. I will do more. If on that certain 
day of Heaven the sun shines as I desire it, this my 
godless hand shall make two people happy. But if that 
day of Heaven be illumined otherwise than I wish, I 
shall give ‘ quantum satis ’ of blessing, love congratula- 
tory verses, long sighs and all that costs nothing. So 
what I shall answer to this question depends upon that 
happy day.” 

Madame Balnokhazy clasped Topandy’s hand to her 
heart and with eyes upturned to Heaven, prayed that 
Providence might bless so good a relation’s choice with 
good humor, and then drew Melanie too towards him, 
that she might render thanks to her good uncle for the 
gracious care he had bestowed upon her. 

Lorand gazed at the group dispiritedly, while Czipra, 
unnoticed, escaped from the room. 

“ And now perhaps Lorand will be so kind as to ac- 
company us to Sarvolgyi’s house.” 

“ As far as the gate.” 

“Where is your dear friend, Melanie, that beautiful 
dear creature? Take a short leave of her. But where 
has she gone to?” 

Lorand did not move a muscle to go and look for 
Czipra. 

“ Well we shall meet the dear child again soon,” said 
Madame Balnokhazy, noticing that they were waiting 
in vain. ‘‘ Give me your arm, Lorand.” 

She leaned on Lorand’s right arm, and motioned to 
Melanie to take her position on the other side; but the 
girl did not do so. Instead she clasped her mother’s 
arm, and so they went along the street, the mother wav- 
ing back affectionately to Topandy, who gazed after 
them out of the window. 

Melanie did not utter a single word the whole way. 

“ The old fellow, it seems, is on bad terms with Sar- 
volgyi?” 

ee Yes.’’ 

“Ts he still as iconoclastic, as godless, as ever?” | 


‘a 


That Yellow-Robed Woman 265 


“ec Yes.’’ 

“And you have been able to stand it so long?” 

oe Yes.”’ 

“ And yet you were always so pious, so god-fearing ; 
are you still?” 

pe 

“So Topandy and Sarvdlgyi are living on terms of 
open enmity?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Yet you will visit us several times, while we are 
here? ” 

ae No.” 

“Heaven be praised that once I hear a ‘no’ from 
you! That heap of yes’s began already to make me 
nervous. Then you too are among his opponents?” 

“ Yes.” 

Meantime they had reached the gate of Sarvdlgyi’s 
house. Here Lorand stopped and would proceed no 
further. 

Madame Balnokhazy clasped Melanie’s hand that she 
might not go in front. 

“ Well, my dear Lorand, and are you not going to 
take leave of us even?” 

Lorand gazed at Melanie, who did not even raise her 
eyes. 

“Good-bye, Madame,” said Lorand briefly. He 
raised his hat and was gone. 

Madame Balnokhazy cast one glance after him with 
those beautiful expressive eyes.—Those beautiful ex- 
pressive eyes just then were full to the brim of relent- 
less hatred. 

When Lorand reached home Czipra was waiting for 
him at the door. 

Raising her first finger, she whispered in his ear: 

“ That was the yellow-robed woman!” 

Yet she had nothing yellow on her. 


CHAPTER XVIII 
THE FINGER-POST OF DEATH 


Loranp threw himself exhausted into his arm-chair. 

There was an end to every attempt at escape. 

He had been recognized by the very woman who 
ought to detest him more bitterly than anyone in the 
world. 

Nemesis! the liberal hand of everlasting justice! 

He had deserted that woman in the middle of the 
road, on which they were flying together passionately 
into degradation, and now that he wished to return to 
life, that woman blocked his way. 

There was no hope of pity. Besides, who would ac- 
cept it—from such a hand? At such a price? Such 
a present must be refused, were it life itself. 

Farewell calm happy life! Farewell, intoxicating 
love! 

There was only one way, a direct one—to the opened 
tomb. 

They would laugh over the fallen, but at least not to 
his face. 

The father had departed that way, albeit he had a 
loving wife, and growing children :—but he was alone 
in the world. He owed nobody any duty. 

There were two enfeebled, frail shadows on earth, to 
which he owed a duty of care; but they would soon fol- 
low him, they had no very long course to run. 

Fate must be accomplished. 

The father’s blood besprinkled the sons. One spirit 
drew the other after it by the hand, till at last all would 
be there at home together. 

Only a few days more remained. 

These few days he must be gay and cheerful: must 


266 


The Finger-Post of Death 267 


deceive every eye and heart, that followed attentively 
him who approached the end of his journey,—that no 
one might suspect anything. 

There was still one more precaution to be taken. 

Desiderius might arrive before the fatal day. In his 
last letter he had hinted at it. That must be prevented. 
The meeting must be arranged otherwise. 

He hurriedly wrote a letter to his brother to come 
to meet him at Szolnok on the day before the anniver- 
sary, and wait for him at the inn. He gave as his rea- 
son the cynicism of Topandy. He did not wish to 
introduce him as a discord in that tender scene. Then 
they could meet, and from there could go together to 
visit their parents. 

The plan was quite intelligible and natural. Lorand 
at once despatched the letter to the post. 

So does the cautious traveler drive from his route 
at the outset, the obstacles which might delay him. 

Scarcely had he sent the letter off when Topandy en- 
tered his room. 

Lorand went to meet him. Topandy embraced and 
kissed him. 

“T thank you that you chose my home as a place of 
refuge from your prosecutors, my dear Lorand; but 
there is no need longer to keep in hiding Later events 
have long washed out what happened ten years ago, and 
you may return to the world without being disturbed.” 

“T have known that long since: why, we read the 
newspapers; but I prefer to remain here. I am quite 
satisfied with this world.” 

* You have a mother and a brother from whom you 
have no reason to hide.” 

“ T only wish to meet them when I can introduce my- 
self to them as a happy man.” 

“That depends on yourself.” 

“ A few days will prove it.” 

“ Be as quick as you can with it. Let only one thought 
possess your mind: Melanie is now in Sarvdlgyi’s 
house. The great spiritual delight it will afford me to 
think of the hypocrite’s death-face which that Pharisee 


268 Debts of Honor 


will make when that trivial woman discloses to him that 
the young man, who is living in the neighborhood, is 
Lorincz Aronffy’s son, can only be surpassed by my 
anxiety for you, caused by his knowledge of the fact. 
For, believe me, he will leave no stone unturned to pre- 
vent you, who will remind him of that night when we 
spoke of great and little things, from being able to 
strike root in this world. He will even talk Melanie 
over.” 

Lorand, shrugging his shoulders, said with light- 
hearted indifference: 

“Melanie is not the only girl on this earth.” 

“Well said. I don’t care. You are my son: and she 
whom you bring here is my daughter. Only bring her; 
the sooner the better.” 

“Tt will not take a week.” 

“ Better still. If you want to act, act quickly. In 
such cases, either quickly or not at all; either coura- 
geously or never.” 

“There will be no lack of courage.” 

Topandy spoke of marriage, Lorand of a pistol. 

“Well in a week’s time I shall be able to give my 
blessing on your choice.” 

“ Certainly.” 

‘ Topandy did not wish to dive further into Lorand’s 
secret. He suspected the young fellow was choosing 
between two girls, and did not imagine that he had al- 
ready chosen a third:—the one with the down-turned 
torch.* 

Lorand during the following days was as cheerful 
as a bridegroom during the week preceding his mar- 
riage—so cheerful!—as his father had been the even- 
ing before his death. 

The last day but one came: May again, but not so 
chilly as ten years before. The air in the park was 
flower-perfumed, full of lark trills, and nightingale dit- 
ties. 


* The torch, which should have been held upright for the 
marriage festivities, would be held upside down for the fes- 
tivities of death, just as the life would be reversed. 


The Finger-Post of Death 269 


Czipra was chasing butterflies on the lawn. 

Ever since Melanie had left the house, Czipra’s 
sprightly mood had returned. She too played in the 
lovely spring, with the playful birds of song. 

Lorand allowed her to draw him into her circle of 
playmates: 

“How does this hyacinth look in my hair?” 

“Tt suits you admirably, Czipra.” 

The gypsy girl took off Lorand’s hat, and crowned 
itwith awreath of leaves, then put it back again, chang- 
ing its position again and again until she found out how 
it suited him best. 

Then she pressed his hand under her arm, laid her 
burning face upon his shoulder, and thus strolled about 
with him. 

Poor girl! She had forgotten, forgiven everything 
already ! 

Six days had passed since that ruling rival had left 
the house: Lorand was not sad, did not pine after 
her, he was good-humored, witty, and playful; he en- 
joyed himself. Czipra believed their stars were once 
more approaching each other. 

Lorand, the smiling and gay Lorand, was thinking 
that he had but one more day to live; and then—adieu 
to the perfumed fields, adieu to the songster’s echo, 
adieu to the beautiful, love-lorn gypsy girl! 

They went arm-in-arm across the bridge, that little 
bridge that spanned the brook. They stopped in the 
middle of the bridge and leaning upon the railing 
looked down into the water ;—in the self same place 
where Melanie’s engagement ring fell into the water. 
They gazed down into the water-mirror, and the 
smooth surface reflected their figures; the gypsy girl 
still wore a green dress, and a rose-colored sash, but 
Lorand still saw Melanie’s face in that mirror. 

In this place her hand had been in his: in that place 
she had said of the lost ring “ leave it alone:”’ in that 
place he had clasped her in his arms! 

And to-morrow even that would cause no pain! 

Topandy now joined them. 


270 Debts of Honor 


“Do you know what, Lorand?” said the old Man- 
ichean cheerily: “I thought I would accompany you 
this afternoon to Szolnok. We must celebrate the day 
you meet your brother: we must drink to it!” 

“ Will you not take me with you?” inquired Czipra 
half in jest. 

‘“ No!” was the simultaneous reply from both sides. 

“Why not?” 

“ Because it is not fit for you there—There is no 
room for you there!” 

Both replied the same. 

Topandy meant “ You cannot take part in men’s ca- 
rousals; who knows what will become of you?” while 
Lorand—meant something else. 

“Well, and when will Lorand return?” inquired 
Czipra eagerly. 

“ He must first’return to his parents,” answered To- 
pandy. 

(—‘“‘ Thither indeed” thought Lorand, “to father 
and grandfather ”—) 

“ But he will not remain there forever? ” 

At that both men laughed loudly. What kind of ex- 
pression was that word “ forever’ in one’s mouth? Is 
there a measure for time? 

“What will you bring me when you return?” in- 
quired the girl childishly. 

Lorand was merciless enough to jest: he tore down a 
leaf which was round, like a small coin; placing that on 
the palm of her hand, he said: 

“Something no greater than the circumference of 
this leaf.” 

Two understood that he meant “a ring,” but what 
he meant was a “ bullet ’’ in the centre of his forehead. 

How pitiless are the jests of a man ready for 
death. 

Their happy dalliance was interrupted by the butler 
who came to announce that a young gentleman was 
waiting to speak with Master Lorand. 

Lorand’s heart beat fast! It must be Desi! 

Had he not received the letter? Had he not acceded 


The Finger-Post of Death 271 


to his brother’s request? He had after all come one 
day sooner than his deliberate permission had allowed. 

Lorand hastened up to the castle. 

Topandy called after him: 

“ If it is a good friend of yours bring him down here 
into the park: he must dine with us.” 

“We shall wait here by the bridge,” Czipra added: 
and there she remained on the bridge, she did not her- 
self know why, gazing at those plants on the surface of 
the water, that were hiding Melanie’s ring. 

Lorand hastened along the corridors in despondent 
mood: if his brother had really come, his last hours 
would be doubly embittered. 

That simulation, that comedy of cynical frivolity, 
would be difficult to play before him. 

The new arrival was waiting for him in the reception 
room. 

When Lorand opened the door and stood face to face 
with him, an entirely new surprise awaited him. 

The young cavalier who had thus hastened to find 
him was not his brother Desi, but—Pepi Gyali. 

Pepi was no taller, no more manly-looking than he 
had been ten years before ; he had still that childish face, 
those tiny features, the same refined movements He 
was still as strict an adherent to fashion: and if time 
had wrought a change in him, it was only to be seen 
in a certain, distinguished bearing,—that of those who 
often have the opportunity of playing the protector to- 
ward their former friends. 

“Good day, dear Lorand,” he said in a gay tone, an- 
ticipating Lorand. “Do you still recognize me?” 

(“ Ah,” thought Lorand: “ you are here as the fin- 
ger-post of death.’’) 

“ T did not want to avoid you: as soon as | knew from 
the Balnokhazys that you were here, I came to find you.” 

After all it was “ she” that had put him on Lorand’s 
track ! 

“T have business here with Sarvélgyi in Madame 
Balnokhazy’s interest—a legal agreement.” 

Lorand’s only thought, while Gydali was uttering 


272 Debts of Honor 


these words, was—how to behave himself in the pres< 
ence of this man. 

“ T hope,” said the visitor tenderly extending his hand 
to Lorand, “ that that old wrangle which happened ten 
years ago has long been forgotten by you—as it has 
by me.” 

(‘‘ He wishes to make me recollect it, if perchance 
I had forgotten.” ) 

“ And we shall again be faithful comrades and true.” 

One thought ran like lightning in a moment through 
Lorand’s brain. ‘If I kick this fellow out now as 
would be my method, everyone would clearly under- 
stand the origin of the catastrophe, and take it as sat- 
isfaction for an insult. No, they must have no such tri- 
umph: this wretch must see that the man who is gaz- 
ing into the face of his own death is in no way behind 
him, who burns to persecute him to the end with ex- 
quisiteness, in cheerful mood.” 

So Lorand did not get angry, did not show any sul- 
lenness or melancholy, but, as he was wont to do in 
student days of yore, slapped the dandy’s open hand and 
grasped it in manly fashion. 

“So glad to see you, Pepi. Why the devil should I 
not have recognised you? Only I imagined that you 
would have aged as much as I have since that time, and 
now you stand before me the same as ever. I almost 
asked you what we had to learn for to-morrow? ” 

“JT am glad of that! Nothing has caused me any 
displeasure in my life except the fact that we parted in 
anger—we, the gay comrades !—and quarrelled !—why? 
for a dirty newspaper! The devil take them all!— 
Taken all together they are not worth a quarrel be- 
tween two comrades. Well, not a word more about 
itt,” 

“Well, my boy, very well, if your intentions are 
good. In any case we are country fellows who can 
stand a good deal from one another. To-day we calum- 
niate each other, to-morrow we carouse together.” 

Ha, ha, ha! 

“ But you must introduce me to the old man. I hear 


a 


The Finger-Post of Death 273 


he is a gay old fool. He does not like priests. Why I 
can tell him enough tales about priests to keep him go- 
ing for a week. Come, introduce me. I know his 
mouth will never cease laughing, once I begin upon 
him.”’ 

“ Naturally it is understood that you will remain here 
with us.” 

“ Of course. Old Sarvélgyi, as it is, had made sour 
faces enough at the unusual invasion of guests: and he 
has a cursedly sullen housekeeper. Besides it is dis- 
agreeable always to have to say nice things to the two 
ladies: that’s not why a fellow comes to the country. 
A propos, I hear you have a beautiful gypsy girl here.” 

“You know that too, already?” 

“J hope you are not jealous of her?” 

“What, the devil! of a gypsy girl?” 

(“ Well just try it with her,” thought Lorand, “ at 
any rate you will get ‘ per procura,’ that box on the ears 
which I cannot give you.”’) 

“ Ha, ha! we shall not fight a duel for a gypsy girl, 
shall we, my boy?” 

“Nor for any other girl.” 

“You have become a wise man like me: I like that. 
A woman is only a woman. Among others, what do 
you say to Madame Balnokhazy? I find she is still 
more beautiful than her daughter. Ma foi, on my word 
of honor! Those ten years on the stage have only done 
her good. I believe she is still in love with you.” 

“ That’s quite natural,’’ said Lorand in jesting scorn. 

In the meantime they had reached the park; they 
found Topandy and Czipra by the bridge. Lorand in- 
troduced Pepi Gyali as his old school-fellow. 

That name fairly magnetized Czipra.—Melanie’s 
fiancé !—So the lover had come after his bride. What 
a kind fellow this Pepi Gyali was! A really most ami- 
able young man! 

Gyali quite misunderstood the favorable impression 
his name and appearance made on Czipra: he was ready 
to attribute it to his irresistible charms. 

After briefly making the acquaintance of the old man, 


274 Debts of Honor 


he very rapidly took over the part of courtier, which 
every cavalier according to the rules of the world is 
bound to do; besides, she was a gypsy girl, and—Lor- 
and was not jealous. 

“You have in one moment explained to me some- 
thing over which I have racked my brains a whole day.” 

“What can that be?” inquired Czipra curiously. 

“ How it is that some one can preter fried fish and 
fried rolls at Sarvdlgyi’s to cabbage at Topandy’s?” 

“Who may that someone be? ” 

“Why, I could not understand that Miss Melanie 
was able to persuade herself to change this house for 
that; now I know: she must have put up with a great 
persecution here.” 

“ Persecution?” said Czipra, astonished :—the gen- 
tlemen too stared at the speaker.—‘* Who would have 
persecuted her?” 

“Who? Why these eyes!” said Gyali, gazing flat- 
teringly into Czipra’s eyes. ‘‘ The poor girl could not 
stand the rivalry. It is quite natural that the moon, 
however sweet and poetic a phenomenon, always flees 
before the sun.” 

To Czipra this speech was very surprising. There 
are many who do not like overburdened sweetness. 

“ Ah, Melanie is far more beautiful than I,” she said, 
casting her eyes down, and growing very serious. 

“Well it is my bounden duty to believe in that, as in 
all the miracles of the apostles: but I cannot help it, if 
you have made a heretic of me.” 

Czipra turned her head aside and gazed down into 
the water with eyes of insulted pride: while Lorand, 
who was standing behind Gyali, thought within him- 
self ; 

(“If I take you by the neck and drown you in that 
water, you would deserve it, and it will do good to my 
soul: but I should know I had murdered you: and no 
one should ever be able to boast of that? My name shall 
never be connected with yours in death.’’) 

For Lorand might well have known that Gyali’s ap- 


The Finger-Post of Death 275 


pearance on that day had no other object than that of 
reminding Lorand of his awful obligation. 

“ My dear boy,” said Lorand patting Gyali’s shoulder 
playfully, “I must show what a general I should have 
made. I have an important journey this afternoon to 
Szolnok.” 

“ Well, go; don’t bother yourself on my account. Do 
exactly as you please.” 

“ That’s not how matters lie, Pepi: you must not stay 
here in the meantime.” 

“ The devil! Perhaps you will turn me out?” 

“Oh dear no! To-night we shall have a glorious 
carnival at Szolnok, in honor of my regeneration. All 
the gay fellows of the neighborhood are invited to it. 
You must come with us too.” 

“Ha! Your regeneration carnival!” cried Gyali, in 
a voice of ecstasy, the while gazing at Czipra apologet- 
ically. ‘‘ Albeit other magnets draw me hither with 
overpowering force—I must go there without fail. I 
must deliver a ‘toast’ at your ‘ regeneration’ festival, 
Lorand.” 

“My brother Desi will also be there.” 

“Oho! little Desi? That little rebel. Well all the 
better. We shall have much in common with him; of 
old he was an amusing boy, with his serious face. Well 
I shall go with you. I sacrifice myself. TI capitulate. 
Well we shall go to Szolnok to-night.” 

Why, anyone might have seen plainly—had he not 
come that day just to revel in the agony of Lorand? 

“Yes, Pepi,” Lorand assured him, “ we shall be gay 
as we were once ten years ago. Much hidden joy awaits 
us: we shall break in suddenly upon it. Well, you are 
coming with us.” 

“ Without fail: only be so good as to send some one 
next door for my traveling-cloak. I shall go with you 
to your ‘ regeneration ’ féte!”’ 

And once again he grasped Lorand’s hand tenderly, 
as one who was incapable of expressing in words all the 
good wishes with which his heart was brimming over. 


276 Debts of Honor 


“You see I should have been a good general after 
all,” said Lorand smiling. “ How beautifully I cap- 
tured the besieging army.” 

“Oh, not at all; the blockade is still being kept up.” 

‘“‘ But starvation will be a difficult matter where the 
garrison is well nourished.” 

The poor gypsy girl did not understand a word of all 
this jesting, which was uttered for her edification: and 
if she had understood it, was she not a gypsy girl, just 
to be sported with in this manner? 

Were not Topandy and his comrades wont to jest 
with her after this manner. 

But Czipra did not laugh over these jests as much 
as she had done at other times. 

It exercised a distasteful influence upon her heart, 
when this young dandy spoke so lightly of Melanie, and 
even slighted her before the eyes of another girl. Did 
all men speak so of their loved ones? And do men 
speak so of every girl? 

Topandy turned the conversation. He knew his man 
at the first glance: he had many weak sides. He began 
to “ my lord” him, and made inquiries about those for- 
eign princes, whose plenipotentiary minister M. Gyali 
was pleased to be. 

That had its effect. 

Gyali became at once a different person: he strove to 
maintain an imposing bearing with a view to raising his 
dignity, for all the world as if he had swallowed a 
poker ; he straightened his eyebrows, put his hands be- 
hind him under the tails of his lilac-colored dress-coat 
and formed his mouth into the true diplomatic shape. 

It was a supreme opportunity for being able to dis- 
play his grandiose achievements. Let that other see 
how high he had flown, while others had remained fast- 
ened to the earth. 

“T have just concluded a splendid business for his 
Excellency, the Prince of Hohenelm-Weitbreitstein.” 

“A ruling prince, of course?” inquired Topandy, in 
naive wonder. 


The Finger-Post of Death 277 


“Why, you know that.” 

“Of course, of course. His possessions lie just 
where the corners of the great principalities of Lip- 
pedetmold, Schwarzburg-Sondershausen and Reuss- 
major meet.” 

Oh, Gyali must have been very full of self-confidence 
when he answered to the old magistrate’s peculiar geo- 
graphical definition, ‘* yes.”’ 

“Your lordship has already doubtless found an ex- 
cellent situation in the Principality?” 

“T have an order and a title, the gift of His Excel- 
lency.” ; 

‘““Of course it may lead to more.” 

“Oh yes. In return for my winning His Excel- 
lency’s domains, which he inherited on his mother’s 
side, he will settle on me 5,000 acres of land.” 

“In Hohenelm-Weitbreitstein? ” 

“No: here in the Magyar country.” 

“T thought in Hohenelm-Weitbreitstein: for that is 
a beautiful country.” 

Gyali began to see that it was after all something 
more than simplicity that could give utterance to such 
easily recognized exaggeration ; and when the old man 
began to inform him, in which section of which chapter 
of the Corpus Juris would be found inscribed His Ex- 
cellency’s Magyar “ indigenatus,” etc., etc, Gyali 
began to feel exceedingly uncomfortable, and began to 
again change the course of the conversation. He chat- 
tered on about His Excellency being a fine, free-think- 
ing man, related a hundred anecdotes about him, how 
he turned out the Jesuits from his possessions, what 
jokes he had played on the monks, how he persecuted 
the pietists, and other such things as might be very in- 
convenient incumbrances to the Principality of Hohen- 
elm-Weitbreitstein,—in the case of any such principality 
existing in the world. 

The theme lasted the whole of dinner time. 

Czipra wanted to do all she could to-day for herself. 
For the farewell-dinner she sought out all that she had 


278 Debts of Honor 


found Lorand liked, and Lorand was ungrateful enough 
to allow Gyali the field of compliment to himself: he 
could not say one good word to her. 

Yet who knew when he would sit at that table again? 

Dinner over, Lorand spent a few minutes in running 
over the house: to give instructions to every servant as 
to what was to be done in the fields, the garden and the 
forest before his return in two weeks’ time. He gave 
everyone a tip to drink to his health; for to-morrow he 
was to celebrate a great festival. 

Topandy, too, was looking over the preparations for 
the journey. Czipra was the lady of the house: it was 
her task, as it had always been, to amuse the guest who 
remained alone. Topandy never troubled himself to 
amuse anyone, for whose entertainment he was respon- 
sible. Czipra was there, he must listen to what she had 
to say. 

In the meantime the butler, who had been sent to 
Sarvolgyi’s to bring Gyali’s traveling cloak, came back. 

i brought also a letter from the young lady for Lor- 
an 

“From the young lady?” 

Lorand took the letter from him and told him to take 
the cloak up to the guest’s room. 

He himself hastened to his own room. 

As he passed through the saloon, Gyali met him, ecom- 
ing from Czipra’s room. The dandy’s face was pe- 
euliarly flurried. 

“ My dear friend,” he said to Lorand, “ that gypsy 
girl of yours is a regular female panther, and you have 
trained her well, I can tell you-—Where is there a look- 
ing-glass? ” 

“Yes she is,” replied Lorand. He scarcely knew 
why he said it: he heard, but only unconsciously. 

Only that letter! Melanie’s letter! 

He was in such a hurry to reach his room with it. 
Once there and alone, he shut the door, kissed the fine 
rose-colored note, and its azure-blue letters, the red seal 
upon it; and clasped it to his breast, as if he would find 
out from his heart what was in it. 


The Finger-Post of Death 279 


Well, and what could be in it? 

Lorand put the letter down before him and laid his 
fist heavily upon it. 

“Must I know what is in that letter? 

“Suppose she writes that she loves me, and awaits 
happiness from me, that her love can outbalance a whole 
lost world, that she is ready to follow me across the sea, 
beyond the mocking sneers of acquaintances, and to 
disappear with me among the hosts of forgotten figures ! 

“No. I shall not break open this letter. 

“ My Iast step shall not be hesitating. 

“ And if what seems such a chance meeting is nought 
but a well planned revenge? If they have all along been 
agreed and have only come here together that they may 
force me to confess that I am humiliated, that I beg for 
happiness, for love, that I am afraid of death because 
I am in love with the smiling faces of life; and when I 
have confessed that, they will laugh in my face, and will 
— me to the contempt of the whole world, of my own 
. ee 

“Let them marry each other!” 

Lorand took the beautiful note and locked it up im the 
drawer of his table, unopened, unread. 

His last thought must be that perhaps he had been 
loved, and that last thought would be lightened by the 
uncertainty : only “ perhaps.” 

And now to prepare for that journey. 

It was Lorand’s wont to carry two good pistols on a 
journey. These he carefully loaded afresh, then hid 
them in his own traveling trunk. 

He left his servant to pack in the trunk as much linen 
as would be enough for two weeks, for they were going 
to journey farther. 

Topandy had two carriages ready, his traveling 
coach and a wagon. 

When the carriages drove up, Lorand put on his trav- 
eling cloak, lit his pipe and went down into the court- 
yard. : 

Czipra was arranging all matters in the carriages, the ‘ 
trunks were bound on tightly and the wine-case with its 


280 Debts of Honor 


twenty-four bottles of choice wine, packed away in a 
sure place. 

“You are a good girl after all, Czipra,” said Lorand, 
tenderly patting the girl’s back. 

ddterallne 

Was he really so devoted to that pipe that he could 
not take it from his mouth for one single moment ? 

Yet she had perhaps deserved a farewell kiss. 

“Sit with my uncle in the coach, Pepi,” said Lorand 
to the dandy, “ with me you might risk your life. I 
might turn you over into the ditch somewhere and break 
your neck. And it would bea pity for such a promising 
youth.” 

Lorand sprang up onto the seat and took the reins 
in his hands. 

“Well, adieu, Czipra!’”’"—The coach went first, the 
wagon following. 

Czipra stood at the street-door and gazed from there 
at the disappearing youth, as long as she could see him, 
resting her head sadly against the doorpost. 

_ But he did not glance back once. 

\He was going at a gallop towards his doom. 

And when evening overtakes the travelers, and the 
night’s million lights have appeared, and the tiny glow- 
worms are twinkling in the ditches and hedges, the 
young fellow will have time enough to think on that 
theme: that eternal law rules alike over the worlds and 
the atoms—but what is the fate of the intermediate 
worms? that of the splendid fly? that of ambitious 
men and nations struggling for their existence? 
“Fate gives justice into the two hands of the evil one, 
that while with the right he extinguishes his life, with 
the left he may stifle the soul.” 





CHAPTER XIX 
FANNY 


Some wise man, who was a poet too, once said: “ the 
best fame for a woman is to have no fame at all.” I 
might add: “ the best life history is that, which has no 
history.” 

Such is the romance of Fanny’s life and of mine. 

Eight years had passed since they brought a little girl 
from Fiirsten-Allee to take my place: the little girl had 
grown into a big girl—and was still occupying my 
place. 

How I envied her those first days, when I had to yield 
my place to her, that place veiled with holy memories in 
our family’s mourning circle, in mother’s sorrowing 
heart ; and how I blessed fate, that I was able to fill that 
place with her. 

My career led me to distant districts, and every year 
I could spend but a month or two at home; mother 
would have aged, grandmother have grown mad from 
the awful solitude had Heaven not sent a guardian angel 
into their midst. 

How much I have to thank Fanny for. 

For every smile of mother’s face, for every new day 
of grandmother’s life—I had only Fanny to thank. 
Every year when I returned for the holidays I found 

long-enduring happy peace at home. 

Where everyone had so much right every day madly 
to curse fate, mankind, the whole world; where sorrow 
should have ruled in every thought ;—I found nothing 
but peace, patience, and hope. 

It was she who assured them that there was a limit 
to suffering, she who encouraged them with renewed 
hopes, she who allured them by a thousand possible 


281 


282 Debts of Honor 


variations on the theme of chance gladness, that might 
come to-morrow or perhaps the day after. 

And she did everything for all the world as if she 
never thought of herself. 

What a sacrifice it must be for a fair lively girl to 
sacrifice the most brilliant years of her youth to the 
nursing of two sorrow-laden women, to suffering with 
them, to enduring their heaviness of disposition. 

Yet she was only a substitute girl in the house. 

When I left Pressburg and the Fromm’s house her 
parents wished to take her home; but Fanny begged 
them to leave her there one year longer, she was so fond 
of that poor suffering mother. 

And then every year she begged for another year; 
so she remained in our small home until she was a full- 
grown maiden. 

Yes Pressburg is a gay, noisy town. The Fromm’s 
house was open before the world and the flower ought 
to open in spring—the young girl has a right to live and 
enjoy life. 

Fanny voluntarily shut herself off from life. There 
was no merriment in our house. 

My parents often assured her they would take her to 
some entertainments, and would go with her. 

“For my sake? You would go to amusements that 
I might enjoy myself? Would that be an amusement 
for me? Let us stay at home.—There will be time for 
that later.” 

And when she victimized herself, she did it so that no 
one could see she was a victim. 

There are many good patient-hearted girls, whose 
lips rever complain, but hollow eyes, pale faces, and 
clouded dispositions utter silent complaints and give 
evidi nce of buried ambitions. 

Fanny’s face was always rosy and smiling: her eyes 
cheerful and fiery, her disposition always gay, frank 
and contented; her every feature proved that what she 
did she did from her heart and her heart was well 
pleased. Her happy ever-gay presence enlightened the 
while gloomy circle around her, as when some angel 


Fanny 283 


walks in the darkness, with a halo of glory around his 
figure. 

From year to year I found matters so at home when 
I returned for the holidays: and from year to year one 
definite idea grew and took shape in our minds mutu- 
ally. 

We never spoke of it: but we all knew. 

She knew—I knew, her parents knew and so did 
mine ; nor did we think anything else could happen. It 
was only a question of time. We were so sure about 
it that we never spoke of it. 

After finishing my course of studies, I became a law- 
yer; and, when I received my first appointment in a 
treasury office, one day I drew Fanny’s hand within 
mine, and said to her: 

“ Fanny dear, you remember the story of Jacob in the 
Bible?” 

Lane 4 a 

“Do you not think Jacob was an excellent fellow, in 
that he could serve seven years to win his wife?” 

“T cannot deny that he was.”’ 

“Then you must acknowledge that I am still more 
excellent for I have already served eight years—to win 

ou.” 

Fanny looked up at me with those eyes of the sum- 
mer-morning smile, and with childish happiness re- 
plied: 

‘“ And to prove your excellence still further, you must 
wait two years more.” 

“Why?” I asked, downcast. 

“Why?” she said with quiet earnestness. “ Do you 
not know there is a vacant place at our table; and until 
that is filled, there can be no gladness in this house. 
Could you be happy, if you had to read every day in 
your mother’s eyes the query, ‘ where is that other?’ All 
your gladness would wound that suffering heart, and 
every dumb look she gave would be a reproach for our 
gladness. Oh, Desi, no marriage is possible here, as 
long as mourning lasts.” 

And as she said this to prevent me loving her, she 
only forced me to love her the more. 


284 Debts of Honor 


“ How far above me you are!” 

“Why those two short years will fly away, as the 
rest. Our thoughts for each other do not date from 
yesterday, and, as we grow old, we shall have time 
enough to grow happy. I shall wait, and in this wait- 
ing I have enough gladness.” 

Oh how I would have loved to kiss her for those 
words: but that face was so holy before me, I should 
have considered it a sacrilege to touch it with my lips. 

“We remain then as we were.” 

“Very well.” 

“ Not a word of it for two years yet, when you are re- 
leased from your word of honor you gave to Lorand, 
and may discover his whereabouts. Why this long se- 
crecy? That I cannot understand. I have never had 
any ambition to dive more deeply into your secret than 
you yourselves have allowed me to: but if you made a 
promise, keep it; and if by this promise you have 
thrown your family, yourself, and me into ten years’ 
mourning, let us wear it until it falls from us.” 

I grasped the dear girl’s hand, I acknowledged how 
terribly right she was; then with her gay, playful hu- 
mor she hurried back to mother, and no one could have 
fancied from her face, that she could be serious for a 
moment. 

I risked one more audacious attempt in this matter. 

I wrote to Lorand, putting before him that the hori- 
zon all round was already so clear, that he might march 
round the country to the sound of trumpets, announcing 
that he is so and so, without finding anyone to arrest 
him, as it was the same whether it was ten years or 
eight, he might let us off the last two years, and admit 
us to him. 

Lorand wrote back these short lines in answer: 

“We do not bargain about that for which we gave 
our word of honor.” 

It was a very brief refusal. 

I troubled him no more with that request. I waited 
and endured, while the days passed. ..... Ah, Lor- 
and, for your sake I sacrificed two years of heaven on 
earth! 


CHAPTER XX 
THE FATAL DAY! 


Ir had come at last! 

We had already begun to count the days that re- 
mained. 

One week before the final day, I received a letter from 
Lorand, in which he begged me not to go to meet him at 
Lankadomb, but rather to give a rendezvous in Szolnok: 
he did not wish the scene of rapture to be spoiled by 
the sarcasms of Topandy. 

I was just as well pleased. 

For days all had been ready for the journey. I hunted 
up everything in the way of a souvenir which I had still 
from those days ten years before when I had parted 
from Lorand, even down to that last scrap of paper,* 
which now occupied my every thought. 

It would have been labor lost on my part to tell the 
ladies how bad the roads in the lowlands are at that time 
of year, that in any case Lorand would come to them 
a day later. Nor indeed did I try to dissuade them from 
making the journey. Which of them would have re- 
mained homeat such a time? Whichof them would have 
given up a single moment of that day, when she might 
once more embrace Lorand? They both came to me. 

We arrived at Szolnok one day before Lorand: I only 
begged them to remain in their room until I had spoken 
with Lorand. 

They promised and remained the whole day in one 


* The paper of Madame Balnokhazy’s letter which was used 
for the fatal lot-drawing. 


285 


286 Debts of Honor 


room of the inn, while I strolled the whole day about 
the courtyard on the watch for every arriving carriage. 

An unusual number of guests came on that day to 
the inn: gay companions of Topandy from the neighbor- 
hood, to whom Lorand had given a rendezvous there. 
Some I knew personally, the others by reputation; the 
latter’s acquaintance too was soon made. 

It struck me as peculiar that Lorand had written to 
me that he did not wish the elegiac tone of our first 
gathering to be disturbed by the voice of the stoics of 
Lankadomb, yet he had invited the whole Epicurean 
alliance here—a fact which was likely to give a dithy- 
rambic tone to our meeting. 

Well, amusement there must be. I like fellows who 
amuse themselves. 

It was late evening when a five-horsed coach drove 
into the courtyard—in the first to get out I recognized 
Gyali. 

What did he want among us? 

After him stepped out a brisk old man whose mous- 
tache and eyebrows I remembered of old. It was my 
uncle, Topandy. 

Remarkable! 

Topandy came straight towards me. 

So serious was his face, when, as he reached me, he 
grasped my hand, that he made me feel quite confused. 

“You are Desiderius Aronffy?”’ he said: and with 
his two hands seized my shoulders, that he might look 
into my eyes. “ Though you do not say so, I recognize 
you. It is just as if I saw your departed father before 
me. The very image! ” 

Many had already told me that I was very like what 
my father had been in his young days. 

Topandy embraced me feelingly. 

“Where is Lorand?” I inquired. “Has he not 
come?” 

“ He is coming behind us in a wagon,” he answered, 
and his voice betrayed the greatest emotion. “ He will 
soon be here. He does not like a coach. Remain here 
and wait for him.” 


The Fatal Day 287 


Then he turned to his comrades who were buzzing 
around him. 

“Let us go and wait inside, comrades. Let us leave 
these young fellows to themselves when they meet. 
You know that such a scene requires no audience. Well, 
right about face, quick march!” 

Therewith he drove all the fellows from the corridor: 
indeed did not give Gyali time to say how glad he was 
to meet me again. 

The gathering became all the more unintelligible to 
me. 

Why, if Topandy himself knew best what there was 
to be felt in that hour, what necessity had we to avoid 
him? 

Now the wagon could be heard! The two steeds gal- 
loped into the courtyard at a smart pace with the light 
road-cart. He was driving himself. 

I scarcely recognized him. His great whiskers, his 
closely-cropped hair, his dust-covered face made quite 
a different figure before me from that which I had been 
wont to draw in my album,—as I had thought to see, 
as mother or grandmother directed me, saying “ that 
is missing, that feature is other, that is more, that is less, 
that is different,” times without number we had amused 
ourselves with that. 

Lorand was unlike any portrait of him I had drawn. 
He was a muscular, powerful, rough country cavalier. 

As he leaped out of the wagon, we hastened to each 
other. 

The centre of the courtyard was not the place to play 
an impassioned scene in. Besides neither of us like 
comedy playing. 

“Good evening, old fellow.” 

“ Good evening, brother.” 

That was all we said to each other: we shook hands, 
kissed each other, and hurried in from the courtyard, 
straight to the room filled with roysterers. 

They received Lorand with wall-shaking “ hurrahs,” 
and Lorand greeted them all in turn. 

Some embittered county orator wished to deliver a 


288 Debts of Honor 


speech in his honor, but Lorand told him to keep that 


until wine was on the table: dry toasts were not to his* 


taste. 

Then he again returned to my side and took my face 
in his hands. 

“By Jove! old fellow, you have quite grown up! 
I thought you were still a child going to school. You are 
half a head taller than 1am. Why I shall live to see you 
married without my knowing or hearing anything about 
ine 

I took Lorand’s arm and drew him into a corner. 

“Lorand, mother and grandmother are here too.” 

He wrenched his arm out of my hand. 

“Who told you to do that?” he growled irritatedly. 

“ Quietly, my dear Lorand. I have committed no 
blunder even in formalities. It will be ten years to-mor- 
row since you told me I might in ten years tell mother 
where you are. Then you wrote to me to be at Szolnok 
to-day. I have kept my promise to mother as regards 
telling her to-morrow and to you by my appearance 
here. Szolnok is two days distant from our home :—so 
I had to bring them here in order to do justice to both 
my promises. 

Lorand became unrestrainedly angry. 

“ A curse upon every pettifogger in the world! You 
have swindled me out of my most evident right.” 

“ But, dear Lorand, are you annoyed that the poor 
dear ones can see you one day earlier?” 

“ That’s right, begin like that—Fool, we wanted to 
have a jolly evening all to ourselves, and you have 
spoilt it.” 

“ But you can enjoy yourselves as long as you like.” 

“Indeed? ‘As long as we like,’ and I must go ina 
tipsy drunken state to introduce myself to mother? ” 

“Tt is not your habit to be drunk.” 

“ What do you know? I’m fairly uproarious once I 
begin at it. It was a foolish idea of yours, old fellow.” 

“Well, do you know what? Put the meeting first, 
after that the carousal.” 

“T have told you once for all that we shall make no 


The Fatal Day 289 


bargains, sir advocate. No transactions here, sir advo- 
cate!” 

“ Don’t ‘ sir advocate’ me!” 

“Wait a moment. If you could be so cursediy exact 
in your calculation of days, | shall complete your astro- 
nomical and chronological studies. Take out your 
watch and compare it with mine. It was just 11:45 
by the convent clock in Pressburg, when you gave me 
your word. To-morrow evening at II: 45 you are free 
from your obligation to me: then you can do with me 
what you like.” 

I found his tone very displeasing and turned aside. 

“Well don’t be dispirited,’ said Lorand, drawing me 
towards him and embracing me. ‘“ Let us not be angry 
with each other: we have not been so hitherto. But you 
see the position I am in. I have gathered together a 
pack of dissolute scamps and atheists, not knowing you 
would bring mother with you, and they have been my 
faithful comrades ten years. I have passed many bad, 
many good days with them: I cannot say to them ‘ Go, 
my mother is here.’ Nor can I sit here among them 
till morning with religious face. In the morning we 
shall all be ‘soaked.’ Even if I conquer the wine, my 
head will be heavy after it. I have need of the few 
hours I asked you for to collect myself, before I can 
step into my dear ones’ presence with a clear head. Ex- 
plain to them how matters stand.” 

“ They know already, and will not ask after you until 
to-morrow.” 

“ Very well. There is peace between us, old fellow.” 

When the company saw we had explained matters to 
each other, they all crowded round us, and such a noise 
arose that I don’t know even now what it was all about. 
I merely know that once or twice Pepi Gyali wished to 
catch my eye to begin some conversation, and that at 
such times I asked the nearest man, “ How long do you 
intend to amuse yourselves in this manner?” “ How 
are you?” and similar surprising imbecilities. 

Meanwhile the long table in the middle of the room 
had been laid: the wines had been piled up, the savory 


290 Debts of Honor 


victuals were brought in; outside in the corridors a 
gypsy band was striking up a lively air, and everybody 
tried to get a seat. 

I had to sit at the head of the table, near Lorand. On 
Lorand’s left sat Topandy, on his right, beside me, Pepi 
Gyali. 

Mt Well, old fellow, you too will drink with us to- 
day?” said Lorand to me playfully, putting his arms 
familiarly round my neck. 

“No, you know I never drink wine.” 

“Never? Not to-day either? Not even to my 
health? ” 

I looked at him. Why did he wish to make me drink 
to-day especially ? 

“No, Lorand. You know I am bound by a promise 
not to drink wine, and a man of honor always keeps his 
promises, however absurd.” 

I shall never forget the look which Lorand gave me 
at these words. 

“You are right, old fellow:” and he grasped my 
hand. “A man of honor keeps his promises, however 
absurd. 5 )7 

And as he said so, he was so serious, he gazed with 
such alarming coldness into the eyes of Gy4li, who sat 
next to him. But Pepi merely smiled. He could smile 
so tenderly with those handsome girlish round lips of 
his. 

Lorand patted him on the shoulder. 

“Do you hear, Pepi? My brother refused to drink 
wine, because a man of honor keeps his promises. You 
are right, Desi. Let him who says something keep his 
word.” 

Then the banquet began. 

It is a peculiar study for an abstainer to look on at a 
midnight carousal, with a perfectly sober head, and to 
be the only audience and critic at this “ divina com- 
edia”” where everyone acts unwittingly. 

The first act commenced with the toasts. He to 
whom God had given rhetorical talent raises his glass, 
begs for silence,—which at first he receives and later 


, 


The Fatal Day 291 


not receiving tries to assure for himself by his sten- 
torian voice ;—and with a very serious face, utters very 
serious phrases :—one is a master of grace, another of 
pathos: a third quotes from the classics, a fourth hu- 
morizes, and himself laughs at his success, while every- 
body finishes the scene with clinking of glasses, and em- 
braces, to the accompaniment of clarion “ hurrahs.” 

Later come more fiery declamations, general out- 
bursts of patriotic bitterness. | Brains become more 
heated, everyone sits upon his favorite hobby-horse, 
and makes it leap beneath him; the socialist, the artist, 
the landlord, the champion of order, everyone begins to 
speak of his own particular theme—without keeping to 
the strict rules of conversation that one waits until the 
other has finished: rather they all talk at once, one in- 
terrupting the other, until finally he who has com- 
menced some thrilling refrain hands over the leadership 
to all: the song becomes general, and each one is con- 
vinced from hearing his own vocal powers, that no- 
where on earth can more lovely singing be heard. 

And meantime the table becomes covered with empty 
bottles. 

Then the paroxysm grows by degrees to a climax. 
He who previously delivered an oration now babbles, 
comes to a standstill, and, cuts short his discomfiture by 
swearing; there sits one who had already three times 
begun upon some speech, but his bitterness, mourning 
for the past, so effectually chokes his over-ardent feel- 
ings that he bursts into tears, amidst general laughter. 
Another who has already embraced all his comrades 
in turn, breaks in among the gypsies and kisses them 
one after the other, swearing brotherhood to the bass 
fiddler and the clarinetist. At the farther end of the 
table sits a choleric fellow, whose habit it is always to 
end in riotous fights, and he begins his freaks by 
striking the table with his fist, and swearing he will kill 
the man who has worriéd him. Luckily he does not 
know with whom he is angry. The gay singer is not 
content with giving full play to his throat, helping it 
out with his hands and feet: he begins to dash bottles 


292 Debts of Honor 


and plates against the wall, and is delighted that so 
many smashed bottles give evidence of his triumph. 
With a half crushed hat he dances in the middle of the 
room quite alone, in the happy conviction that every- 
body is looking at him, while a blessed comrade had 
come to the pass of dropping his head back upon the 
back of his chair, only waking up when they summon 
him to drink with him—though he does not know 
whether he is drinking wine or tanner’s ooze. 

But the fever does not increase indefinitely. 

Like other attacks of fever, it has a crisis, beyond 
which a turn sets in! 

After midnight the uproarious clamor subsided. The 
first heating influence of the wine had already worked 
itself out. One or two who could not fight with it, gave 
in and lay down to sleep, while the others remained in 
their places, continuing the drinking-bout, not for the 
sake of inebriety, merely out of principle, that they 
might show they would not allow themselves to be over- 
come by wine. 

This is where the real heroes’ part begins, of those 
whom the first glass did not loosen, nor the tenth tie 
their tongues. 

Now they begin to drink quietly and to tell anecdotes 
between the rounds. 

One man does not interrupt another, but when one 
has finished his story, another says, “I know one still 
better than that,” and begins: “the matter happened 
here or there, I myself being present.” 

The anecdotes at times reached the utmost pitch of 
obscenity and at such times I was displeased to hear 
Lorand laugh over such jokes as expressed contempt for 
womankind. 

I was only calmed by the thought that “ our own’ 
were long in bed—it was after midnight—and so it were 
impossible for mother or someone else out of curiosity 
to be listening at the keyhole, waiting for Lorand’s 
voice. 

All at once Lorand took over the lead in the conversa 
tion. 


The Fatal Day 293 


He introduced the question “‘ Which is the most cele- 
brated drinking nation in the world?” 

He himself for his part immediately said he consid- 
ered the Germans were the most renowned drinkers. 

This assertion naturally met with great national op- 
position. 

They would not surrender the Magyar priority in 
this respect either. 

Two peacefully-inclined spirits interfered, trying to 
produce a united feeling by accepting the English- 
man, then the Servian as the first in drinking matters— 
a proviso which naturally did not satisfy either of the 
disputing parties. Lorand, alone against the united 
opinion of the whole company, had the audacity to as- 
sert that the Germans were the greatest drinkers in the 
world. He produced celebrated examples to prove his 
theory. 

“Listen to me! Once Prince Batthyany sent two 
barrels of old Gonez wine to the Brothers of Hybern. 
But the duty to be paid on good Magyar wine be- 
yond the Lajta* was terrible. The recipients would 
have had to pay for the wine twenty gold pieces*—a 
nice sum. So the Brothers, to avoid paying and to 
prevent the wine being lost, drank the contents of the 
two barrels outside the frontier.” 

Ah, they could produce drinkers three times or four 
times as great, this side of the Lajta! 

But Lorand would not give in. 

“Well, your namesake, Pép6d Henneberg,” related 
Lorand, turning to Gyali, “ introduced the custom of 
drawing a string through the ears of his guests, who 
sat down at a long table with him, and compelled them 
all to drain their beakers to the dregs, whenever he 
drank, under penalty of losing the ends of their ears.” 

“With us that is impossible, for we have no holes 
bored in our ears!” cried one. 


* A river near Pressburg, the boundary between Austria and 
Hungary. 
t+ Probably 200 florins. 


294 Debts of Honor 


“ We drink without compulsion! ”’ replied another. 
“The Magyar does all a German can do!”’ 
That assertion, loudly shouted, was general. 


“Even draining glasses as they did at Wartburg? * 


cried Lorand. 

‘“ What the devil was the custom at Wartburg?” 

“ The revellers at Wartburg, when they were in high 
spirits used to load a pistol, and then to fill the barrel 
to the brim with wine: then they cocked the trigger, and 
drained this curious glass one after another for friend- 
ship’s sake.”’ 

(1 see you, Lorand!) 

“ Well, which of you is inclined to follow the German 
cavaliers’ example? ”’ 

Topandy interrupted. 

“I for one am not, and Heaven forbid you should be.” 

+ Aeaime7 

—Which remark came from Gyali, not Lorand. 

I looked at him. The fellow had remained sober. He 
had only tasted the wine, while others had drunk it. 

“ Tf you are inclined, let us try,’”’ said Lorand. 

“With pleasure, only you must do it first.” 

“T shall do so, but you will not follow me.” 

“Tf you do it, I shall too. But I think you will not 
do it before me.” 

One idea flashed clearly before me and chilled my 
whole body. I saw all: I understood all now: the mys- 
tery of ten years was no longer a secret to me: I saw 
the refugee, I saw the pursuer, and I had both in my 
hand, in such an iron grip, as if God had lent me for the 
moment the hand of an archangel. 

You just talk away. 

Lorand’s face was a feverish red. 

“Well, well, you scamp! Let us bet, if you like.” 

“What ? ” ; 

“ Twenty bottles of champagne, which we shall drink 
too.” 

“T accept the wager.” 

“Whoever withdraws from the jest loses the bet.” 

“ Here’s the money! ” 


The Fatal Day 295 


Both took their purses and placed each a hundred 
florins on the table. 

I too produced my purse and took a crumpled paper 
out of it:—but it was no banknote. 

Lorand cried to the waiter. 

“ Take my pistols out of my trunk.” 

The waiter placed both before him. 

Are they really loaded?” inquired Gyéli. 

“Look into the barrels, where the steel head of the 
bullets are smiling at you.” 

Gyali found it wiser to believe than to look into the 
pistol barrels. 

“Well, the bet stands; whichever of us cannot drink 
out his portion pays for the champagne.” 

Lorand seized his glass to pour the red wine that was 
in it into the pistol-barrel. 

The whole company was silent: some agonized re- 
straint ruled their intoxicated nerves: every eye was 
rested on Lorand as if they wished to check the mad jest 
before its completion. On Topandy’s forehead heavy 
beads of sweat glistened. 

I quietly placed my hand on Lorand’s, in which he 
held the weapon and amid profound silence asked: 

“ Would it not be good to draw lots to see who shall 
do it first?” 

Both looked at me in confusion when I mentioned 
drawing lots. 

Could their secret have been discovered? 

“ Only if you draw lots about it,”’ I continued quietly, 
“don’t omit to be quite sure about the writing of each 
other’s name, lest there be a repetition of that farce 
which took place ten years ago, when you drew lots as 
to who was to dance with the white elephant.” 

I saw Gyali turn as white as paper. 

“What farce?” he panted, beginning to rise from his 
chair. 

“You always were a jesting boy, Pepi: at that time 
you made me draw lots for you, and told me to put both 
the one I had drawn and the other in the grate: but in- 
stead of doing so J threw the dance programme in the 


296 Debts of Honor 


fire, and put those papers aside and kept them. You, 
instead of your own, wrote my brother’s name on the 
paper, and so whichever was drawn, Lorand Aronfty 
must have come out of the hat. Look, the two lottery 
tickets are still in my possession, those same two pieces 
of paper, a sheet of note paper torn in two, both with 
the same name on them, and on the other side the writ- 
ing of Madame Balnokhazy.” 

Gyali rose from his seat like one who had seen a 
ghost, and gazed at me with a look of stone. 

Yet I had not threatened him. I had merely playfully 
jested with him. I smilingly spread out the two pieces 
of lilac-colored papers, which so exactly fitted together. 

But Lorand with flashing eyes glared at him, and as 
the dignified upright figure stood opposite him, threw 
the contents of the glass he held in his hand into the 
fellow’s face, so that the red wine splashed all over his 
laced white waistcoat. 

Gyali with his serviette wiped from his face the traces 
of insult and with dignified coldness said: 

“With men in such a condition no dispute is possible. 
We cannot answer the taunts of drunken men.” 

Therewith he began to back towards the door. 

Everybody, in amazement at this scene, allowed him 
to go: for all the world as if everyone had suddenly be- 
gun to be sober, and at the first surprise no one knew 
how to think what should now happen. 

But I... . I was not drunk. I had no need to be- 
come sober. 

I leaped up from my place, with one bound came up to 
the departing man, and seized him before he could reach 
the door, just as a furious tiger fastens up a miserable 
dormouse. 

“T am not drunk! I have never drunk wine, you 
know,” I cried losing all self-restraint, and pressing him 
against the wall so that he shivered like a bat.—“ I shall 
be the one to throw that cursed forgery in your face, 
miserable wretch!” 

And I know well that that single blow would have 
been the last chapter in his life—which would have been 


The Fatal Day 297 


a great pity, not as far as he was concerned, but for my 
own sake—had not Heaven sent a guardian angel to 
check me in my wickedness. é 

Suddenly someone behind seized the hand raised to 
strike. I looked back, and my arm dropped useless at 
my side. 

It was Fanny who had seized my arm. 

“ Desi,” cried my darling in a frightened voice: 
“This hand is mine: you must not defile it.” 

I felt she was right. I allowed my uncontrollable 
anger to be overcome; with my left hand I threw the 
trembling wretch out of the door—I do not know where 
he fell—and then I turned round to clasp Fanny to my 
breast. 

Already mother and grandmother were in the room. 

The poor women had spent the whole evening of 
agony in the neighboring room, keeping perfectly still, 
so as not to betray their presence there, with the inten- 
tion of listening for Lorand’s voice: and they had 
trembled through that last awful scene, of which they 
could hear every word. When they heard my cry of 
rage, they could restrain themselves no longer, but 
rushed in, and threw themselves among the revellers 
with a cry of ‘‘ My son, my son.” 

Everyone rose at their honored presence: this sol- 
emn picture, two kneeling women embracing a son 
snatched from the jaws of death. 

The surprising horror had reduced everyone to so- 
berness: all tipsiness, all winy drowsiness, had passed 
away. 

“TLorand, Lorand,” sobbed mother, pressing him 
frantically to her breast, while grandmother, unable to 
speak or to weep, clutched his hand. 

fem torand, dear. . .” 

But Lorand grasped the two ladies’ hands and led 
them towards me. : 

“Tt is him you must embrace, not me: his is the tri- 
umph.” : 

Then he caught sight of that sweet angel bowed upon 
my shoulder, who was still holding my hand in hers: he 


298 Debts of Honor 


recollected those words with which Fanny a moment be- 
fore had betrayed our secret. “ This hand is mine ”— 
and he smiled at me. 

“Ts that the way matters stand? Then you have 
your reward in your hands, . . . and you can leave 
these two weeping women to me.” 

Therewith he threw himself on his face upon the 
floor before them, and embracing their feet kissed the 
dust beneath them. 

“Oh, my darlings! My loved ones.” 


CHAPTER XXI 
THAT LETTER 


Wuat those who had so long waited, spoke and 
thought during that night cannot be written down. 
These are sacred matters, not to be exposed to the pub- 
lic gaze. 

Lorand confessed all, and was pardoned for all. 

And he was as happy in that pardon as a child who 
had been again received into favor. 

Lorand indeed felt as if he were beginning his life 
now at the point where ten years before it had been in- 
terrupted, and as if all that happened during ten years 
had been merely a dream, of which only the heavy 
beard of manhood remained. 

It was very late in the morning when he and Desider- 
ius woke. Sleep had proved very pleasant for once. 

Sleep—and in place of death too. 

“Well old fellow,”’ said Lorand to his brother, “ I 
owe you one more adventurous joke, with which I wish 
to surprise you.” 

The threat was uttered so good-humoredly that Des- 
iderius had no cause to be frightened, but he said 
quietly: “ Tell me what it is.” 

Lorand laughed. 

“T shall not go home with you now.” 

“ Well, and what shall you do?” inquired Desiderius 
quite as astonished as Lorand had expected. 

“I shall escape from you,” he said, shaking his head 
good-humoredly. 

* Ah, that is an audacious enterprise! But tell me, 
where are you going to escape to?” 

“Ha, ha! I shall not merely tell you where I am go- 


299 


300 Debts of Honor 


ing, but I shall take you with me to look after me hence- 
forward as you have done hitherto.” 

“You are very wise to do so—May I know 
whither?” 

“ Back to Lankadomb.” 

“To Lankadomb? Perhaps you have lost something 
there?” 

“Yes, my senses.—Well don’t look at me so curiously 
as if you wished to ask whether I ever had any. You 
and this little girl quite understand each other. I see 
that mother and grandmother too are sufficiently in love 
with her to give her to you: but my blessing has yet to 
come, old man—that you have not received yet.” 

““ Hope assures me that perhaps I have softened your 
hard heart.” 

“Not all at once. I shall tell you something.” 

“ Tam all ears.” 

“Tn my will I passed over all my worldly wealth to 
you: the sealed letter is in your possession. As far as I 
know you, | believe I shall cause you endless joy by ask- 
ing back my will from you, and telling you that you will 
now be poorer by half your wealth, for the other half I 
require.” 

“T know that without waiting for you to teach me. 
But what has your old testament to do with the gospel 
of my heart?” 

“Oh your head must be very dense, old fellow, if you 
don’t understand yet. Then listen to my ultimatum. I 
refuse to give my consent to your marrying—before 
me.” 

Desiderius threw himself on Lorand’s neck ; he under- 
stood now. 

“ There is somebody you love?” 

Lorand assented with a smile. 

“Of course there is. But—you know how that 
blackguard (by Jove, you gave him a powerful shak- 
ing!) confused my calculation for an entire life. I 
could not make her understand about that of which the 
continuation begins only to-day. Still, all the more rea- 
son for hastening. A half hour is necessary to tell an- 


That Letter 301 


other all about it, half an hour in a carriage: they will 
remain here meanwhile. We shall fly to Topandy at 
Lankadomb: by evening we shall have finished all, and 
to-morrow we shall be here again, like two flying mad- 
men, who are striving to see which can carry the other 
off more rapidly towards the goal—where happiness 
awaits him. I shall drive the horses to Lankadomb, you 
can drive them back.” 

“Poor horses!” 

Desiderius did not dare to go himself with these glad 
tidings to his mother. He entrusted Fanny to prepare 
her for them—perhaps so much delight would have 
killed her. 

They told her Lorand had official business which 
called him to Lankadomb for one day; and they started 
together with Topandy. 

Topandy was let into the secret, and considered it his 
duty to go with Lorand—he might be required to give 
the bride away. 

The world around Lorand had changed—at least so 
he thought, but the change in reality was within him. 

He was indeed born again: he had become quite a 
different man from the Lorand of yesterday. The 
noisy good-humor of yesterday badly concealed the re- 
solve that despised death, just as the dreaminess of 
to-day openly betrayed the happiness that filled his 
heart. 

The whole way Desiderius could scarcely get one 
word from him, but he might easily read in his face all 
upon which he was meditating: and if he did utter once 
or twice encomiums on the beautiful May fields, Desi- 
derius could see that his heart too felt spring within it. 

How beautiful it was to live again, to be happy and 
gay, to have hopes, expect good in the future, to love 
and be proud in one’s love, to go with head erect, to be 
all in all to someone! 

At noon they arrived at Lankadomb. 

Czipra ran out to meet them and clapped her hands. 

“You were driven away; how did you get back so 
soon? Well no one expected you to dinner.’ 


302 Debts of Honor 


Lorand was the first to leap off the cart, and tenderly 
offered his hand to the girl. 

“We have arrived, my dear Czipra. Even if you did 
not expect us to dinner, you can give us some of your 
own.” 

‘“‘Oh, no,” said the girl in a whisper, blushing at the 
same time, “‘ I have been accustomed to eat at the serv- 
ant’s table, when you were not at home, and you have 
brought a guest too. Who is that gentleman? ” 

‘My brother, Desi, a very good fellow. Kiss him, 
Czipra.” 

Czipra did not wait to be told twice, and Desiderius 
returned the kiss. 

“Now give him a room: to-day we shall stay here. 
Send up water to my room, we have got very dusty on 
the way, although we wished to be handsome to-day.” 

“ Indeed? ”’—Czipra took Desiderius’ hand, and as 
she led him to his room, asked him the whole history of 
his life: where he lived: why he had not visited Lorand 
sooner: was he married already, and would he ever 
come back there again? 

Desiderius had learned from Lorand‘s letters about 
Czipra that he might readily answer any question the 
poor girl might ask, and might at first sight tell her 
every secret of his heart. Czipra was delighted. 

Lorand, however, did not wait for Topandy, who was 
coming behind, but rushed to his room. 

That letter, that letter !—it had been on his mind the 
whole way. 

His first duty was to take it out of the closed drawer 
and read it over. 

He did not deliberate long now whether to break the 
seal or not: and the envelope tore in his hand, as the 
seal would not yield. 

And then he read the following words: 


“ S e 

IR: 

“That minute, in which I learned your name, raised 
a barrier for ever between us. The recollections which 
are a burden upon you, cannot be continued by an 


That Letter 303 


alliance between us. You who dragged my mother 
down into misfortune, and then faithlessly deserted 
her, cannot insure me happiness, or expect faithful- 
ness from me. I shall weep over Balint Tatray, as my 
departed to whom my dream gave being, and whom 
cold truth has buried; but Lorand Aronffy I do not 
know. It is my duty to tell you so, and if you are, as I 
believe, a man of honor, you will consider it your duty, 
should we ever meet in life, never again to make men- 
tion of what was Balint Tatray. 

Good-bye, 

“ MELANIE.” 


Lorand fell back in his chair broken-hearted. 

That was the contents of the letter he had kissed 
—the letter which, on the threshold of the house 
of death he had not dared to open, lest the happiness 
which would beam upon him should shake the firm- 
ness of his tread. Ah, they wished to make death easy 
for him! To write such a letter to him! To utter such 


“Why, she is right. I was not the Joseph of the 
Bible: but does not love begin with pardon? Did I 
blame her for the possession of that ring she let fall in 
the water? And from whom could she know that my 
crime was worse than that which hung round that ring? 

“ And if I were steeped in that crime with which she 
charges me, how can an angel, who may know nothing 
of what happens in hell, put such a thought in these 
cold-blooded words. 

“ They wished to kill me. 

“They wished to close the door behind me, as 
Johanna of Naples did to her husband, when he was 
struggling with his assassins. 

“And they wished to wash clean the murderer’s 
hands, throwing upon me the charge of having killed 
myself because my love was despised. 

“ They knew everything well, they calculated all with 
cold mercilessness. They waited for the hour to come, 
and whetted the knife before I took it in my hands. 


304 Debts of Honor 


“ And yet I can never hate her! She has plunged the 
dagger into my heart, and I remember only the kiss she 
Bawa e: Juet % 

That moment he felt a quiet pressure on his shoulder. 

Confused, he looked up. Czipra was standing behind 
him. The poor gypsy girl could not allow anyone else to 
wait on Lorand: she had herself brought him the water. 

The girl’s face betrayed a tender fear: she might long 
have been observing him, unknown to him. 

“What is the matter?” she asked in trembling 
anxiety. 

Lorand could not speak. He merely showed her the 
letter he had read. 

Czipra could not understand the writing. She did not 
know how one could poison another with dumb letters, 
could wound his heart to its depths, and murder it. She 
merely saw that the letter made Lorand ill. 

She recognized that rose-colored paper, those fine 
characters. 

“ Melanie wrote that.” 

By way of reply Lorand in bitter inexpressible pain 
turned his gaze towards the letter. 

And the gypsy girl knew what that gaze said, knew 
what was written in that letter: with a wild beast’s pas- 
sion she tore it from Lorand’s hand and passionately 
shred it into fragments and cast it on the ground, then 
trampled upon its pieces, as one tramples upon running 
spiders. 

Thereupon she hid her face in her hands and wept in 
Lorand’s stead. 

Lorand went towards her and taking her hand, said 
sadly: 

“You see, such are not the gypsy girls whose faces 
are brown, who are born under tents, and who cut cards, 
and make that their religion.” 

Then with Czipra’s hand in his he walked long up 
and down his room without a word. Neither knew what 
to say to the other. They merely reflected how they 
could comfort each other’s sorrow—and could not find 
a way. 


That Letter 305 


This melancholy reverie was interrupted by To- 
pandy’s arrival. 

“Now I beg you, Czipra, if you love me—” said 
Lorand. 

If she loved him? 

“To say not a single word to anybody of what you 
have seen. Nothing has happened to me.—If from this 
moment you ever see me sad, ask me ‘ What is the mat- 
ter?’ and I shall confess to you. But that pale face 
shall never be among those for which I mourn.” 

Czipra was rejoiced at these words. 

“Let us show cheerful faces before my uncle and 
brother. Let us be good-humored. No one shall see the 
sting within us.” 

“ And who knows, perhaps the bee will die for it—” 
Czipra departed with a cheery face as she said that. At 
the door she turned back once more: 

“ The cards told me all that last night. Till midnight 
I kept cutting them. But the murderer always threat- 
ens you albeit the green-robed girl always defends you. 
—See, I am so mad—but there is nothing else in which 
I can believe.” 

“ There will be something else, Czipra,” said Lorand. 
“Now I am going away with my brother to celebrate 
his marriage, then I shall return again.” 

Thereupon there was no more need to insist on Czi- 
pra’s being good-humored the whole day. Her good- 
humor came voluntarily. 

Poor girl, so little was required to make her happy. 

Lorand, as soon as Czipra was gone, collected from 
the floor the torn, trampled paper fragments, carefully 
put them together on the table, until the note was com- 
plete, then read it over once again. 

Before the door of his room he heard steps, and gay 
talk intermingled with laughter. Topandy and Desider- 
ius had come to see him. Lorand blew the fragments 
off the table: they flew in all directions: he opened the 
door and joined the group, a third smiling figure. 


CHAPTER XXII 
THE UNCONSCIOUS PHANTOM 


Wuat were they laughing at so much? 

“Do you know what counsel Czipra gave us?”’ said 
Topandy. “ As she did not expect us to dinner, she ad- 
vised us to go to Sarvélgyi’s, where there will be a great 
banquet to-day. They are expecting somebody.” 

“Who will probably not arrive in time for dinner,” 
added Desiderius. 

Czipra joined the conversation from the extreme end 
of the corridor. 

“The old housekeeper from Sarvolgyi’s was here to 
visit me. She asked for the loan of a pie-dish and 
ice: for Mr. Gyali is expected to arrive to-day from 
Szolnok.” 

“ Bravo!” was Topandy’s remark. 

“ And as I see you have left the young gentleman be- 
hind, just go yourselves to taste Mistress Boris’s pies, 
or she will overwhelm me again with curses.” 

‘We shall go, Czipra,” said Lorand: “ Yes, yes, don’t 
laugh at the idea. Get your hat, Desi: you are well 
enough dressed for a country call: let us go across to 
Sarvolgyi’s.” 

“To Sarvolgyi’s?” said Czipra, clasping her hands, 
and coming closer to Lorand. ‘ You will go to Sar- 
volgyi’s?” 

“Not just for Sarvolgyi’s sake,” said Lorand very 
seriously,—* who is in other respects a very righteous 
pious fellow ; but for the sake of his guests, who are old 
friends of Desi’s—Why, I have not yet told you, Desi. 
Madame Balnokhazy and her daughter are staying here 
with Sarvélgyi on a matter of some legal business. You 


%”? 


306 


The Unconscious Phantom 307 


cannot overlook them, if you are in the same village 
with them.” 

“I might go away without seeing them,” replied 
Desiderius indifferently; “but I don’t mind paying 
them a visit, lest they should think I had purposely 
avoided them. Have you spoken with them already?” 

“Oh yes. We are on very good terms with one an- 
other.” 

Lorand sacrificed the caution he had once exercised 
in never writing a word to Desiderius about Melanie. It 
seemed Desi did not run after her either; what had his 
childish ideal come to? Another ideal had taken its 
place. 

“ Besides, seeing that Gyali is the ladies’ solicitor, and 
seeing that you, my dear friend, have ‘ manupropria’ 
despatched Gyali out of Szolnok—he immediately took 
the post-chaise and is already in Pest,or perhaps farther 
—it is your official duty to give an explanation to those 
who are waiting for their solicitor and to tell them where 
you have put their man—if you have courage enough 
to do so.” 

Desiderius at first drew back, but later his calm con- 
fidence and courage immediately confirmed his resolu- 
tion. 

“What do you say,—if I have courage? You shall 
soon see. And you shall see, too, what a lawyer-like de- 
fence I am able to improvise. I wager that if | put the- 
case before them, they will give the verdict in our 
favor.” 

“Do so, I beseech you,” said Lorand, soliciting his 
brother with humorously clasped hands. 

“TI shall do so.” 

“ Well be quick: get your hat, and let us go.” 

Desiderius with determined steps went in search of 
his hat. 

Czipra laughed after him. She saw how ridiculous 
it would be. He was going to calumniate the bride- 
groom before the bride. With what words she herself 
did not know: but she gathered from the gentlemen’s 
talk that Gyali had been driven from the company the 


308 Debts of Honor 


night before for some flagrant dishonor. Since two 
days she too had detested that fellow. 

Lorand meanwhile gazed after his brother with eyes 
flashing with a desire for vengeance. 

Topandy grasped Lorand’s hand. 

“Tf I believed in cherubim, | should say: a persecut- 
ing angel had taken up his abode in you, to whisper that 
idea to you. Do you know, Desiderius is the very 
double of what your father was when he came home 
from the academy : the same face, figure, depth of voice, 
the same lightning fire in his eyes, and that same mur- 
derous frown, and you are now going to take that boy 
before Sarvolgyi that he may relate an awful story of a 
man who wished to murder a good friend in the most — 
devilish manner, just as he did!” 

“Hush! Desi of that knows not a word.” 

“So much the better. A living being, who does not 
suspect that to the man whom he is visiting, he is the 
most horrible phantom from the other world! The 
murdered father, risen up in the son!—It will make me 
acknowledge one of the ideas I have hitherto denied— 
the existence of hell.” 

Desiderius returned. 

“Look at us, my dear Czipra,” said Lorand to the 
girl, who was always fluttering around him: “are we 
handsome enough? Will the eyes of the beautiful rest — 
upon us?” 

“Go,” answered Czipra, pushing Lorand in playful — 
anger, “as if you didn’t know yourselves! Rather take 
care you don’t get lost there. Such handsome fellows 
are readily snapped up.” 

“No, Czipra, we shall return to you,” said Lorand, — 
pressing Czipra so tenderly to him, that Desiderius con- _ 
sidered as superfluous any further questions as to why © 
Lorand had brought him there. He approved his 
brother’s choice: the girl was beautiful, natural, good- _ 
humored and, so it seemed, in love with him. What ~ 
more could be required ?—“ Don’t be afraid, Czipra; no- 
body’s beautiful blue eyes shall detain us there.” 

“T was not afraid for your sakes of beautiful eyes,” 


The Unconscious Phantom 309 


replied Czipra, “ but of Mistress Boris’s pies :—such 
pies cannot be got here.” 

Thereat all three laughed—finally Desiderius too, 
though he did not know what kind of mythological 
monster such a sadly bewitched cake might be, which 
came from Mistress Boris’s hand. 

Topandy embraced the two young fellows. He was 
sorry he could not accompany them, but begged Lorand 
notwithstanding to remain as long as he liked. 

Czipra followed them to the door. Lorand there 
grasped her hand, and tenderly kissed it. The girl did 
not know whether to be ashamed or delighted. 

Thrice did Lorand turn round, before they reached 
Sarvélgyi’s home, to wave his hand to Czipra. 

Desiderius did not require any further enlightenment 
on that point. He thought he understood all quite well. 


* * * 1 * 


Mistress Boris meanwhile had a fine job at her house. 

“ He was a fool who conceived the idea of ordering a 
banquet for an indefinite time :—not to know whether 
he, for whom one must wait, will come at one, at two, 
at three—in the.evening, or after midnight.” 

Twenty times she ran out to the door to see whether 
he was coming already or not. Every sound of car- 
riage wheels, every dog-bark enticed her out into the 
road, from whence she returned each time more furious, 
pouring forth invectives over the spoiling of all her 
dishes. 

“Perhaps that gypsy girl again! Devil take the 
gypsy girl! She is quite capable of giving this guest a 
breakfast there first, and then letting him go. It would 
be madness surely, seeing that the town gentleman is the 
fiancé of the young lady here: but the gypsy girl too 
has cursed bright eyes. Besides she is very cunning, 
capable of bewitching any man. The damned gypsy 
girl—her spells make her cakes always rise beau- 
tifully, while mine wither away in the boiling fat— 
although they are made of the same flour, and the same 
yeast.” 


310 Debts of Honor 


It would not have been good for any one of the domes- 
tics to show herself within sight of Mistress Borcsa * 
at that moment. 

“Well, my master has again burdened me with a 
guest who thinks the clock strikes midday in the even- 
ing. It was a pity he did not invite him for yesterday, 
in that case he might have turned up to-day. Why, I 
ought to begin cooking everything afresh. 

“I may say,he is a fine bridegroom for a young lady, 
who lets people wait for him. If I were the bridegroom 
of such a beautiful young lady, I should come to dinner 
half a day earlier, not half a day later. There will be 
nice scenes, if he has his cooking ever done at home. But 
of course at Vienna that is not the case, everybody lives 
on restaurant fare. There one may dine at six in the 
afternoon. At any rate, what midday diners leave is 
served up again for the benefit of later comers :—thanks, 
very much.” 

Finally the last bark which Mistress Boris did not 
deign even to notice from the kitchen, heralded the 
approach of manly footsteps in the verandah: and 
when in answer to the bell Mistress Boris rushed to the 
door, to her great astonishment she beheld, not the gen- 
tleman from ‘Vienna, but the one from across the way, 
with a strange young gentleman. 

“May I speak with the master?” inquired Lorand 
of the fiery Amazon. 

“Of course. He is within. Haven’t you brought the 
gentleman from Vienna? ”’ 

“ He will only come after dinner,” said Lorand, who 
dared to jest even with Mistress Boris. 

Then they went in, leaving Mistress Boris behind, the 
prey of doubt. 

“Was it real or in jest? What do they want here? 
Why did they not bring him whom they took away? 
Will they remain here long? ”’ 

The whole party had gathered in the grand salon. 

They too thought that the steps they heard brought 
the one they were expecting—and very impatiently too. 


* Boris. 


The Unconscious Phantom — 311 


Gyali had informed them he would take a carriage and 
return, as soon as he could escape from the revelry at 
Szolnok. Melanie and her mother were dressed in silk: 
on Melanie’s wavy curls could be seen the traces of a 
mother’s careful hand: and Madame Balnokhazy herself 
made a very impressive picture, while Sarvdlgyi had 
put on his very best. 

They must have prepared for a very great festival 
here to-day! 

But when the door opened before the three figures 
that courteously hastened to greet the new-comer, and 
the two brothers stepped in, all three smiling faces 
turned to expressions of alarm. 

“You still dare to approach me? ’’—that was Mel- 
anie’s alarm. 

“You are not dead yet?” inquired Madame Balnok- 
hazy’s look of Lorand. 

“You have risen again?” was the question to be read 
in Sarvélgyi’s fixed stare that settled on Desiderius’ 
face. 

“‘ My brother, Desiderius,’”—said Lorand in a tone of 
unembarrassed confidence, introducing his_ brother. 
“He heard from me of the ladies being here, so per- 
haps Mr. Sarvélgyi will pardon us, if, in accordance 
with my brother’s request, we steal a few moments’ 
visit.” 

“ With pleasure: please sit down. I am very glad to 
see you,” said Sarvolgyi, in a husky tone, as if some 
invisible hand were choking his throat. 

“ Desiderius has grown a big boy, has he not?” said 
Lorand, taking a seat between Madame Balnokhazy and 
Melanie, while Desiderius sat opposite Sarvlgyi, who 
could not take his eyes off the lad. 

“ Big and handsome,” affirmed Madame Balnokhazy. 
“ How small he was when he danced with Melanie!” 

“ And how jealous he was of certain persons!”’ 

At these words three people hinted to Lorand not 
to continue, Madame Balnokhazy, Melanie and Desid- 
erius. How indiscreet these country people are! 

Desiderius found his task especially difficult, after 
such a beginning. 


a1 Debts of Honor 


But Lorand was really in a good humor. The sight 
of his darling of yesterday, dressed in such magnifi- 
cence to celebrate the day on which her poor wretched 
cast-off lover was to blow his brains out, roused such a 
joy in his heart that it was impossible not to show 
it in his words. So he continued: 

“Yes, believe me: the lively scamp was actually jeal- 
ous of me. He almost killed me—yet we are very true 
to our memories.” 

Desiderius could not comprehend what madness had 
come over his brother, that he wished to bring him and 
Melanie together into such a false position. Perhaps it 
would be good to start the matter at once and interrupt 
the conversation. 

On Madame Balnokhazy’s face could be read a certain 
contemptuous scorn, when she looked at Lorand, as if 
she would say: “‘ Well, after all, prose has conquered 
the poetry of honor, a man may live after the day of his 
death, if he has only the phlegm necessary thereto. 
Flight is shameful but useful—yet you are as good as 
killed for all that.” 

This scorn would soon be wiped away from that 
beautiful face. 

““Mesdames,” said Desiderius in cold tranquillity. 
“ Beyond paying my respects, I have another reason 
which made it my duty to come here. I must explain 
why your solicitor has not returned to-day, and why 
he will not return for some time.” 

“Great Heavens! No misfortune has befallen him?” 
cried Madame Balnokhazy in nervous trepidation. 

“On that point you may be quite reassured, Madame: 
he is hale and healthy; only a slight change in his plans 
has taken place: he is just now flying west instead of 
east,’ 

“What can be the reason?” 

“T am the cause, which drove him away, I must con- 
fess.” 

“You?” said Madame Balnokhazy, astonished. 

“Tf you will allow me, and have the patience for it, 


The Unconscious Phantom 313 


I will go very far back in history to account for this 
peculiar climax.” 

Lorand remarked that Melanie was not much inter- 
ested to hear what they were saying of Gyali. She was 
indifferent to him: why, they were already affianced. 

So he began to say pretty things to her: went into 
raptures about her beautiful curls, her blooming com- 
plexion, and various other things which it costs nothing 
to praise. 

As long as he had been her lover, he had never told 
her how beautiful she was. She might have under- 
stood his meaning. Those whom we flatter we no 
longer love. 

Desiderius continued the story he had begun. 

‘« Just ten years have passed since they began to prose- 
cute the young men of the Parliament in Pressburg on 
account of the publication of the Parliamentary journal. 
There was only one thing they could not find out, viz:— 
who it was that originally produced the first edition to 
be copied: at last one of his most intimate friends be- 
trayed the young man in question.” 

“ That is ancient history already, my dear boy,” said 
Madame Balnokhazy in a tone of indifference. 

“Yet its consequences have an influence even to this 
day ; and I beg you kindly to listen to my story to the 
end, and then pass a verdict on it. You must know your 
men.” 

(What an innocent child Desiderius was! Why, he 
did not seem even to suspect that the man of whom he 
spoke was the designated son-in-law of Madame Bal- 
nokhazy. ) 

“The one, who was betrayed by his friend, was my 
brother Lorand, and the one who betrayed his friend, 
was Gyali.” 

“ That is not at all certain,” said Madame. “ In such 
cases appearances and passion often prove deceptive 
mirrors. It is possible that someone else betrayed Mr. 
Aronffy, perhaps some fickle woman, to whom he bab- 
bled of all his secrets and who handed it on to her am- 


314 Debts of Honor 


bitious husband as a means of supporting his own 
merits.” 

“T know positively that my assertion is correct,” 
answered Desiderius, “ for a magnanimous lady, who 
guarded my brother with her fairy power, hearing of 
this betrayal from her influential husband, informed 
Lorand thereof in a letter written by her own hand.” 

Madame Balnokhazy bit her lips. The undeserved 
compliment smote her to the heart. She was the mag- 
nanimous fairy, of whom Desiderius spoke, and that 
fickle woman of whom she had spoken herself. The 
barrister was a master of repartee. 

Melanie, fortunately, did not hear this, for Lorand 
just then entertained her with a wonderful story: how 
that, curiously enough, when the young lady had been 
at Topandy’s, the hyacinths had been covered with 
lovely clusters of fairy bells, and how, one week later, 
their place had been taken by ugly clusters of berries. 
How could flowers change so suddenly ? 

“Very well,” said Madame Balnokhazy, “let us ad- 
mit that when Gyali and Aronffy were students to- 
gether, the one played the traitor on the other. What 
happened then? ” 

“T only learned last night what really happened. 
That evening I was on a visit to Lorand, and found 
Gyali there. They appeared to be joking. They play- 
fully disputed as to who, at the farewell dance, was to 
be the partner of that very honorable lady, who may 
often be seen in your company. The two students dis- 
puted in my presence as to who was to dance with the 
‘aunt.’” 

“ Of course, as a piece of unusual good fortune.” 

“Naturally. As neither wished to give the other 
preference, they finally decided to entrust the verdict 
to lot; on the table was a small piece of paper, the only 
writing material to be found in Lorand’s room after a 
careful rummaging, as all the rest had just been burned. 
This piece of lilac-colored paper was torn in two, and 
both wrote one name: these two pieces they put in a hat 


i 


The Unconscious Phantom 315 


and called upon me to draw out one. I did so and read 
out Lorand’s name.” 

“Do you intend to relate how your brother enjoyed 
himself at that dance?” 

Melanie had not heard anything. 

“T have no intention of saying a single word more 
about that day—and I shall at once leap over ten years. 
But I must hasten to explain that the drawing had noth- 
ing to do with dancing with the ‘aunt’ but was the lot- 
tery of an ‘ American duel ’ caused by a conflict between 
Gyali and Lorand.” 

Desiderius did not remark how the coppery spots on 
Sarvélgyi’s face swelled at the words “ American duel,” 
and then how they lost their color again. 

“One moment, my dear boy,” interrupted Madame 
Balnokhazy. “ Before you continue: allow me to ask 
one question: is it customary to speak in society of 
duels that have not yet taken place?” 

“ Certainly, if one of the principals has by his cow- 
ardly conduct made the duel impossible.” 

“Cowardly conduct?” said Madame Balnokhazy, 
darting a piercing side glance at Lorand. “ That applies 
to you.” 

But Lorand was just relating to Melanie how the 
day-before-yesterday, when the beautiful moonlight 
shone upon the piano, which had remained open as the 
young lady had left it, soft fairy voices began suddenly 
to rise from it. Though that was surely no spirit play- 
ing on the keys, but Czipra’s tame white weasel that, 
hunting night moths, ran along them. 

“Yes,” said Desiderius in answer to the lady. “ One 
of the principals who accepted the condition gave evi- 
dence of such conduct on that occasion as must shut 
him out from all honorable company. Gyali wrote in 
forged writing on that ticket the name of Lorand in- 
stead of his own.” 

Madame Balnokhazy incredulously pursed her lips. 

“ How can you prove that?” 

“T did not cast into the fire, as Gyali bade me, the 


316 Debts of Honor 


two tickets, but in their stead the dance programme I 
had brought with me, the two tickets I put away and 
have kept until to-day, suspecting that perhaps there 
might be some rather important reason for this calcu- 
lating slyness.” 

“Pardon me; but a very serious charge is being 
raised against an absent person, who cannot defend 
himself, and to defend whom is therefore the duty of the 
next and nearest person, even at the price of great in- 
dulgence. Have you any proof, any authentic evidence, 
that either one of the tickets you have kept is forged?” 

Madame Balnokhazy had gone to great extremes in 
doubting the faithfulness and truth-telling of a man,— 
but rather too far. She had to deal with a barrister. 

“The similarity admits of no doubt, Madame. Since 
these two slips are nothing but two halves that fit to- 
gether, of that same letter in which Lorand’s good- 
hearted fairy informed him of Gyali’s treachery; on the 
opposite side of the slips is still to be seen the hand- 
writing of that deeply honored lady: the date and water- 
mark are still on them.” 

Madame’s bosom heaved with anger. This youth of 
twenty-three had annihilated her just as calmly, as he 
would have burnt that piece of paper of which they 
were speaking. 

Desiderius quietly produced his pocket-book and rum- 
maged for the fatal slips of paper. 

“ Never mind. I believe it,’ panted Madame Balnok- 
hazy, whose face in that moment was like a furious 
Medusa head. “I believe what you say. I have no 
doubts about it: therewith she rose from her seat and 
turned to the window. 

Desiderius too rose from his chair, seeing the sit- 
ting was interrupted, but could not resist the temptation 
of pouring out the overflowing bitterness of his heart 
before somebody ; and, as Madame was displeased and 
Melanie was chatting with Lorand of trifles, he was 
obliged to address his words directly to his only hearer, 
to Sarvélygi, who remained still sitting, like one en- 
chanted, while his gaze rested ever upon Desiderius’ 


The Unconscious Phantom 317 


face. This faze, drunken with rage and terror, could 
not tear itself from the object of its fears. 

“ And this fellow has allowed his dearest friend to go 
through life for ten years haunted with the thought of 
death, has allowed him to hide himself in strangers’ 
houses, avoiding his mother’s embraces. It did not 
occur to him once to say ‘Live on; don’t persecute 
yourself; we were children, we have played together. I 
merely played a joke on you.” . . . ” 

Sarvolgyi turned livid with a deathly pallor. 

“Sir, you are a Christian, who believes in God, and 
in those who are saints: tell me, is there any torture of 
hell that could be punishment enough for so ruining a 
youth?” 

Sarvélgyi tremblingly strove to raise himself on his 
quivering hand. He thought his last hour had come. 

“There is none!” answered Desiderius to himself. 
“ This fellow kept his hatred till the last day, and when 
the final anniversary came, he actually sought out his 
victim to remind him of his awful obligation. Oh, sir, 
perhaps you do not know what a terrible fatality there 
is in this respect in our family? So died grandfather, so 
it was that our dearly loved father left us; so good, so 
noble-hearted, but who in a bitter moment, amidst the 
happiness of his family turned his hand against his own 
life. At night we stealthily took him out to burial. 
Without prayer, without blessing, we put him down into 
the crypt, where he filled the seventh place; and that 
night my grandmother, raving, cursed him who should 
occupy the eighth place in the row of blood-victims.” 

Sarvolgyi’s face became convulsed like that of a gal- 
vanized corpse. Desiderius thought deep sympathy had 
so affected the righteous man and continued all the more 
passionately : 

“That fellow, who knew it well, and who was ac- 
quainted with our family’s unfortunate ill-luck, in cold 
blood led his friend to the eighth coffin, to the cursed 
coffin—with the words ‘ Lie down there in it!’ ” 

Sarvélgyi’s lips trembled as if he would cry “ pity: 
say nothing more! ”’ 


318 Debts of Honor 


“ He went with him down to the gate of death, opened 
the dark door before him, and asked him _ banter- 
ingly ‘is the pistol loaded?’ and when Lorand took 
his place amid the revellers: bade him fulfil his obli- 
gation—the perjured hound called him to his obli- 
gation! ” 

Sarvolgyi, all pale, rose at this awful scene :—for all 
the world as if Lorincz Aronffy himself had come to re- 
late the history of his own death to his murderer. 

“Then I seized Lorand’s arm with my one hand, and 
with the other held before the wretch’s eyes the evidence 
of his cursed falseness. His evil conscience bade him 
fly. I reached him, seized his throat... . . 

Sarvolgyi in abject terror sank back in his chair, 
while Madame Balnokhazy, rushing from the window, 
passionately cried “ and killed him?” 

Desiderius, gazing haughtily at her, answered 
calmly: “ No, I merely cast him out from the society of 
honorable men.” 

To Lorand it was a savage pleasure to look at those 
three faces, as Desiderius spoke. The dumb passion 
which inflamed Madame Balnokhazy’s face, the con- 
vulsive terror on the features of the fatal adversary, 
strove with each other to fill his heart with a great de- 
light. 

And Melanie? What had she felt during this narra- 
tion, which made such an ugly figure of the man to 
whom fate allotted her? 

Lorand’s eyes were intent upon her face too. 

The young girl was not so transfixed by the subject 
of the tale as by the speaker. Desiderius in the heat of 
passion, was twice as handsome as he was otherwise. 
His every feature was lighted with noble passion. Who 
knows—perhaps the beautiful girl was thinking it would 
be no very pleasant future to be the bride of Gyali after 
such a scandal! Perhaps there returned to her memory 
some fragments of those fair days at Pressburg, when 
she and Desiderius had sighed so often side by side. 
That boy had been very much in love with his beautiful 
cousin. He was more handsome and more spirited than 


The Unconscious Phantom 319 


his brother. Perhaps her thoughts were such. Who 
knows? 

At any rate, it is certain that when Desiderius an- 
swered Madame’s question with such calm contempt— 
“T cast him out, I did not kill him,”—on Melanie’s face 
could be remarked a certain radiance, though not caused 
by delight that her fiancé’s life had been spared. 

Lorand remarked it, and hastened to spoil the smile. 

“ Certainly you would have killed him, Desi, had not 
your good angel, your dear Fanny, luckily for you, in- 
tervened, and grasped your arm, saying ‘this hand is 
mine. You must not defile it.’”’ 

The smile disappeared from Melanie’s face. 

“ And now,” said Desiderius, addressing his remarks 
directly to Sarvélgyi; “be my judge, sir. What had 
a man, who with such sly deception, with such cold mer- 
cilessness, desired to kill, to destroy, to induce a heart in 
which the same blood flows as in mine—to commit a 
crime against the living God, what, I ask, had such 
a man deserved from me? Have I not a right to drive 
that man from every place, where he dares to appear in 
the light of the sun, until I compel him to walk abroad 
at night when men do not see him, among strangers 
who do not know him ;—to destroy him morally with 
just as little mercy as he displayed towards Lorand ?— 
Wouid that be a crime?” 

“Great Heavens! Something has happened to Mr. 
Sarvolgyi,” cried Madame Balnokhazy suddenly. 

And indeed Sarvélgyi was very pale, his limbs were 
almost powerless, but he did not faint. He put his 
hands behind him, lest they should remark how they 
trembled, and strove to smile. 

“Sir,” he said in a hesitating voice, which often re- 
fused to serve him: “although I have nothing to say 
against it, yet you have told your story at an unfortu- 
nate time and in an ill-chosen place:—this young lady 
is Mr. Gyali’s fiancée and to-day we had prepared for 
the wedding.” 

“T am heartily glad that I prevented it,” said Desi- 
derius, without being in the least disturbed at this dis- 


320 Debts of Honor 


covery. “I think I am doing my relations a good 
service by staying them at the point where they would 
have fallen over a precipice.” 

“You are a master-hand at that,’’ said Madame Bal- 
nokhazy with scornful bitterness. She remembered 
how he had done her a service by a similar interven- 
tion—just ten years ago. “ Well, as you have suc- 
ceeded so perfectly in rescuing us from the precipice, 
perhaps we may hope for the honor of your presence at 
the friendly conclusion of this spoiled matrimonial ban- 
quet?”’ 

Madame Balnokhazy’s wandering life had whetted 
her cynicism. 

It was a direct hint for them to go. 

“We are very much obliged for the kind invitation,” 
replied Lorand courteously, paying her back in the 
same coin of sweetness, “ but they are expecting us at 
home.” 

“Hearts too, which one may not trifle with,” con- 
tinued Desiderius. 

“ Then, of course, we should not think of stealing 
you away,” continued Madame Balnokhazy, touched te 
the quick. “ Kindly greet, in our names, dear Czipra 
and dear Fanny. We are very fond indeed of the good 
girls, and wish you much good fortune with them. The 
arms of Aronffy, too, find an explanation therein: the 
half-moon will in one case mean a horse-shoe, in the 
other a bread-roll. Adieu, dear Lorand! Adieu, dear 
Desi 

Then arm-in-arm they departed and hurried home to 
Topandy’s house. 

Madame’s last outburst had thrown Desiderius into 
an entirely good humor. That was the first thing about 
which he began to converse with Topandy. Madame 
Balnokhazy had congratulated the Aronffy arms on 
the possession of a “ horse-shoe ” and a “ roll,” a gypsy 
girl and a baker’s daughter! 

But Lorand did not laugh at it:—what a fathomless 
deep hatred that woman must treasure in her heart 
against him, that she could break out so! And was she 


The Unconscious Phantom 321 


not right that woman who had desired the young man 
to embrace her, and thus embracing her to rush on to 
the precipice, into shame and death, and damnation, if 
he could love really :—had she no right to scorn him 
who had fled before the romantic crimes of passion and 
had allowed her to fall alone? 

At dinner Desiderius related to Topandy what he 
had said at Sarvolgyi’s. His face beamed like that 
of “pes young student who was glorying in his first 
duel. 

But he could not understand the effect his narration 
had caused. Topandy’s face became suddenly more de- 
termined, more serious; he gazed often at Lorand. 

Once Desiderius too looked up at his brother, who 
was wiping his tear-stained eyes with his handkerchief. 

“You are weeping?” inquired Desiderius. 

“What are you thinking of? I was only wiping 
my brow. Continue your story.” 

When they rose from table Topandy called Lorand 
aside. 

“This young fellow knows nothing of what I re- 
lated to you?” 

“Absolutely nothing.” 

“So he has not the slightest suspicion that in that 
moment he plunged the knife into the heart of his 
father’s murderer? ” 

“No. Nor shall he ever know it. A double mission 
has been entrusted to us, to be happy and to wreak 
vengeance. Neither of us can undertake both at once. 
He has started to be happy, his heart is full of sweet- 
ness, he is innocent, unsuspicious, enthusiastic: let him 
be happy: God forbid his days should be poisoned by 
such agonizing thoughts as will not let me rest!—I am 
enough myself for revenge, embittered as I am from 
head to foot. The secret is known only to us, to grand- 
mother and the Pharisee himself. We shall complete 
the reckoning without the aid of happy men.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 
THE DAY OF GLADNESS 


“ LET us go back at once to your darling,” said Lor- 
and next morning to his brother. “ My affair is already 
concluded.” 

Desiderius did not ask “how concluded?” but 
thought it easy to account for this speech. It could 
easily be concluded between Topandy and Lorand, as 
the former was the girl’s adopted father: Lorand had 
only to disclose to him everything about which it had 
been his melancholy duty to keep silence until the day 
of the catastrophe, which he was awaiting, had arrived. 

Nor could Desiderius suspect that the word “ con- 
cluded ” referred to the visit they had paid together to 
Sarvolgyi. How could he have imagined that Melanie, 
who had been introduced to him as Gyali’s fiancée, had 
one week before filled Lorand’s whole soul with a holy 
light. 

And that light had indeed been extinguished forever. 

Even if they had not succeeded in murdering Lorand 
they had made a dead man of him, such a dead man 
as walks, throws himself into the affairs of the world, 
enjoys himself and laughs—who only knows himself 
the day of his death. 

Desiderius ventured to ask “ When?” 

He always thought of Czipra. 

Lorand answered lightly: 

“When we return.” 

“Whence? ” 

“From your wedding.” 

“Why, you said yours must precede mine.” 

“You are again playing the advocate!” retorted 
Lorand. “I referred not to the execution, but to the 


322 


The Day of Gladness 323 


arrangements. My banns have been called before 
yours; that was my desire. Now it is your business to 
carry your affair through before I do mine. Your affair 
of the heart can easily be concluded in three days.” 

“An excellent explanation! And your marriage re- 
quires longer preparations? ”’ 

“Much longer.” 

“What obstacle can Czipra present?” 

“ An obstacle which you know very well: Czipra is 
still—a heathen. Now the first requisite here for mar- 
riage is the birth-certificate. You know well that To- 
pandy has hitherto brought the poor girl up in an un- 
civilized manner. I cannot present her to mother in 
this state. She must learn to know the principles of 
religion, and just so much of the alphabet as is neces- 
sary for a country lady—and you must realize that sev- 
eral weeks are necessary for that. That is what we 
must wait for.” 

Desiderius had to acknowledge that Lorand’s ex- 
cuse was well-grounded. 

And perhaps Lorand was not jesting? Perhaps he 
thought the poor girl loved him with her whole soul, 
and would be happy to possess these fragments of a 
broken heart. Yet he had not told her anything. 
Czipra had seen him in desperation over that letter: 
as far as the faithful, loving girl was concerned, it 
would have been merely an insult, if the idol of her 
heart had offered her his hand the next moment, out 
of mere offended pride; and, while she offered him im- 
passioned love, given her merely cold revenge in re- 
turn. 

This feeling of revenge must soften. Every impulse 
guided to the old state of things. 

Meantime the marriage of Desiderius would be a 
good influence. He was marrying Fanny. The young 
couple would, during their honeymoon, visit Lanka- 
domb: true love was an education in itself: and then— 
even cemeteries grow verdant in spring. 

The two young men reached Szolnok punctually at 
noon. 


324 Debts of Honor 


And thence they returned home. 

Home, sweet home! At home in a beloved mother’s 
house. A man visits many gay places where people 
enjoy themselves: finds himself at times in glorious 
palaces; builds himself a nest, and rears a house of his 
own:—but even then some sweet enchantment over- 
comes his heart when he steps over the threshold of that 
quiet dwelling where a loving mother’s guardian hand 
has protected every souvenir of his childhood,—so that 
he finds everything as he left it long ago, and sees and 
feels that, while he has lived through the changing 
events of a period in his life, that loving heart has still 
clung to that last moment, and that the intervening time 
has been but as the eternal remembrance of one hour 
spent within those walls. 

There are his childhood’s toys piled up; he would 
love to sit down once more among them, and play with 
them : there are the books that delighted his childhood’s 
days; he would love to read them anew, and learn 
again what he had long forgotten, what was in those 
days such great knowledge. 

Lorand spent a happy week at home, in the course 
of which Mrs. Fromm took Fanny back to Pressburg. 

As Desiderius had asked for Fanny’s hand, it was 
only proper that he should take his bride away from 
her parents’ house. 

One week later the whole Aronffy family started to 
fetch the bride; only Desiderius’ mother remained at 
home. 

In the little house in Prince’s Avenue the same old 
faces all awaited them, only they were ten years older. 
Old Marton hastened, as erstwhile, to open the carriage 
door; only his moving crest was as white as that of a 
cockatoo. Father Fromm, too, was waiting at the door, 
but could no longer run to meet his guests, for his left 
arm and leg were paralyzed: he leaned upon a long 
bony young man, who had spent much pains in trying 
to twist into a moustache by the aid of cunning un- 
guents the few hairs on his upper lip, that would not 
under any circumstances consent to grow. It was easy 


The Day of Gladness 325 


to recognize Henrik in the young fellow who would 
have loved so much to smile, only that cursed waxed 
moustache would not allow his mouth to open very far. 

“Welcome, welcome,’”’ sounded from all sides. Fa- 
ther Fromm opened his arms to receive the grand- 
mother : Henrik leaped on to Desiderius’ neck, while old 
Marton slouched up to Lorand, and, nudging him with 
his elbows, said with a humorous smile, “ Well, no 
harm came of it, you see.” 

“ No, old fellow. And I have to thank this good stick 
for it,” said Lorand, producing from under his coat 
Marton’s walking stick, for which he had had made a 
onaaiag silver handle in place of the previous dog’s- 
oot. : 

The old fellow was beside himself with delight that 
they thought so much of his relics. 

“Ts it true,” he asked, “that you fought two high- 
waymen with this stick? Master Desiderius wrote to 
say so.” 

“No, only one.” 

“ And you knocked him down? ” 

“It was impossible for he ran away. Now I have 
done my walking, and give back the stick with thanks.” 

But it was not the silver handle that delighted Mar- 
ton so. He took the returned stick into the shop, like 
some trophy, and related to the assistants, how Master 
Lorand had, with that alone, knocked down three high- 
waymen. He would not have surrendered that stick for 
a whole Mecklenburg full of every kind of cane. 

Old Grandmother Fromm, too, was still alive and 
counted it a great triumph that she had just finished 
the hundredth pair of stockings for Fanny’s trousseau. 

And last, but not least, Fanny, even more beautiful, 
even more amiable !—as if she had not seen Desiderius 
and his grandmother for an eternity! 

“ Well, you will be our daughter!” 

And they all loved Desiderius so. 

“What a handsome man he has grown,” compli- 
mented Grandmother Fromm. 

“ What a good fellow! ’—remarked Mother Fromm. 


326 Debts of Honor 


“What a clever fellow! How learned!” was Father 
Fromm’s encomium. 

“And what a muscular rascal!” said Henrik, over- 
come with astonishment that another boy too had 
grown as large as he. “Do you remember how one 
evening you threw me on to the bed? How angry I 
was with you then!” 

“Do you remember how the first evening you put 
away the cake for Henrik?” said grandmamma. “ How 
you blushed then!”’ 

“Do you remember,” interrupted Father Fromm, 
“the first time you addressed me in German? How I 
jaughed at you then!” 

‘““ Well, and do you remember me?” said Fanny play- 
fully, putting her hand on her fiancé’s arm. 

“When first you kissed me here,” retorted Desider- 
ius, looking into her beaming eyes. 

“How you feared me then!” 

“ Well, and do you remember,” said the young fel- 
low in a voice void of feeling, “when I stood resting 
against the doorpost, and you came to drag my secret 
out of me. How I loved you then!” 

Lorand stepped up to them, and laying his hands on 
their shoulders, said with a sigh: 

“ Forgive me for standing so long in your path!” 

At that everyone’s eyes filled with tears, everyone 
knew why. 

Father Fromm, deeply moved, exclaimed: 

“ How happy I am,—my God!” and then as if he 
considered his happiness too great, he turned to Henrik, 
“if only you were otherwise! but look, my dear boy: 
nothing has come of him! fit neghgens. If he too had 
learned, he would already be an ‘archivarius!’ That 
is what I wanted to make of him. What a fine title! 
An ‘archivarius!’ But what has become of him? An 
‘asinus!’ Quantus asinus! I ought to have made a 
baker of him. He did not wish to be other, the fool: 
the ‘ perversus homo. Now he is nothing but a 
* pistor. ” 

At this grievous charge poor Henrik would have 


b 





The Day of Gladness 327 


longed to sink into the earth for very shame, a long- 
ing which would have met with opposition, not only 
from the ground-floor inhabitants, but also from the as- 
sistants working in the underground cellars. 

Lorand took Henrik’s part. 

“ Never mind, Henrik. At any rate in both families 
there is a good-for-nothing who can do nothing except 
produce bread: I am the peasant, you the baker: I 
thresh the wheat, you bake bread of it: let the high 
and mighty feast on their pride.” 

Then the common good-humor of the high and 
mighty put a good tone on the conversation. Father 
Fromm actually made peace though slowly with fate, 
and agreed that it was just as well Henrik could con- 
tinue his father’s business. He might find some respite 
in the fact that at least his second child would become 
a ae lady.” 

Desiderius had a joy in store for him in that he was 
to meet his erstwhile Rector, * who was to give away 
the bride. The old fellow had still the same military 
mien, the same harsh voice, and was still as sincerely 
fond of Desiderius and the two families as ever. 

Lorand was to be Desiderius’ best man. 

In this official position he was obliged to stand on the 
bridegroom’s left, while the latter swore before the 
altar, to provide for the bride’s happiness “ till death us 
do part,” receiving in trust a faithful hand which even 
in death would not loosen its hold on his. He was the 
first to praise the bride for repeating after the minister 
so courageously and clearly those words, at which the 
voices of girls are wont to tremble. He was the first 
to raise his glass to the happy couple’s health: he opened 
the ball with the bride: and one day later, it was he who 
took her back on his arm to his mother’s home, saying: 

“ Dear sister-in-law, step into the house from which 
your calm face has driven all signs of mourning: em- 


*The director of the school when he was educated at Press- 
burg. 


328 Debts of Honor 


brace her who awaits you—the good mother who has 
to-day for the first time exchanged her black gown for 
that blue one in which we knew her in days of happi- 
ness. Never has bride brought a richer dowry to a 
bridegroom’s home, than you have to ours. God bless 
you for it.” 

And even Lorand did not know how much that hand 
which pressed his so gently had done for him. 

It is the fate of such deeds to succeed and remain 
obscure. 

“ Let the children spend their happy honeymoon in 
the country,” was the opinion of the elder lady. “ They 
must grow accustomed to being their own masters, too.” 

But the idea met with the most strenuous opposition 
from Desiderius’ mother and Fanny. The mother’s 
prayers were so beautiful, the bride so irresistible, that 
the other two, the grandmother and Lorand, finally al- 
lowed themselves to be persuaded, and agreed that the 
mother should stay with Desiderius. 

“But we two must leave,” whispered grandmother to 
Lorand. 

She had already noticed that Lorand’s face was not 
fit to be present in that peaceful life. 

His gaiety was only for others: a grandmother’s eyes 
could not be deceived. 

While the others were engaged with their own happi- 
ness, the old lady took Lorand’s hand and, without a 
word of “ whither,” they went down together to the 
garden, to the stream flowing beside the garden: to the 
melancholy house built on the bank of the stream. 

Ten years had passed and the creeper had again 
crawled over the crypt door: the green leaves covered 
the motto. The two juniper trees had bowed their 
green branches together over the cupola. 

They stayed there, her head leaning on his bosom. 

How much they must have said to one another, tac- 
itly, without a single word! How they must have 
understood each other’s unspoken thoughts! 

Deep silence reigned around: but within, inside the 
closed, rusted, creeper-covered door, it seemed as if 


The Day of Gladness 329 


someone beckoned with invisible finger, saying to the 
elder boy, “ one great debt is not yet paid.” 

One hour later they returned to the house, where they 
were welcomed by boisterous voices of noisy gladness— 
master and servant were all merry and rejoicing. 

“IT must hasten on my way,” said Lorand to his 
mother. 

Whither ? ” 

“ Back to Lankadomb.” 

“You will bring me a new joy.” 

“Yes, a new joy for you, mother,—and for you, too,” 
he said pressing his grandmother's hand. 

She understood what that handclasp meant. 

The murderer lived stil! —The account was not yet 
balanced! Lorand kissed his happy relations. The old 
lady accompanied him to the carriage, where she kissed 
his forehead. 

“ce Go.” 

And in that kiss there was the weight of a blessing 
that urged him to his difficult duty. 

“ Go—and wreak vengeance.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 
THE MAD JEST 


Let us leave the happy ones to rejoice. 

Let us follow that other youth, in whom all that 
sweet strength for action, which might have brought 
a mutually-loving heart into the ecstasy of happiness, 
had changed into a bitter passion, capable of driving 
a mutualiy-hating soul to destruction. 

It was evening when he reached Lankadomb. 

Topandy was already very impatient. Czipra in- 
formed him she would not give Lorand even time to rest 
himself, but took him at once with her to the laboratory, 
where they had been wont to be together, to study alone 
the mysteries of mankind and nature. 

The old fellow seemed to be in an extraordinarily 
good humor, which 1 in his case was generally a sign of 
excitement. 

“Well, my dear fone he said, “ I have succeeded in 
getting myself tangled up ina mess. I will explain it 
to you. I have always desired to make the acquaint- 
ance of the county prison by reason of some meritorious 
stupidity ; so finally | have committed something which 
will aid my purpose.”’ 

* indeed 77 

“Yes, indeed :—for two years at least. Ha ha! I 
have perpetrated such a mad jest that I am myself en- 
tirely contented. Of course they will imprison me, but 
that does not matter.” 

“What have you done now, uncle?” 

“Just listen, it is a long story. First I must begin 
by saying that Melanie is already married.” 

“So much the better.” 

“T only hope it is for her—for me it is. But it is the 


33° 


The Mad Jest 331 


turning-point of my fate too: so just listen to the end, 
to all the little trifling incidents of the tale—as Mistress 
Boris related them to Czipra, and Czipra to me. They 
all belong to the complete picture.” 

“T am all ears,” said Lorand, sitting down, and de- 
termining to show a very indifferent face when they 
related before him the tale of Melanie's marriage. 

“Well, after you left here, they knowing nothing 
of your departure, Madame Balnokhazy said to her 
daughter: ‘Just for mere obstinacy’s sake you must 
marry Gyali: let these men see how much we care for 
their fables! ’—therewith she wrote a letter herself to 
Gyali to come back immediately to Lankadomb, and 
show himself: they were awaiting him with open arms. 
He must not be afraid of the brothers Aronffy. He 
must look into their faces as behooved a man of dignity. 
To provide against any possible insults, he must pro- 
tect himself with a couple of pocket-pistols : such things 
he must always carry in his pocket, to display beneath 
the nose of anyone who attempted to frighten him with 
his gigantic stature!—Gyali shortly appeared in the 
village again, and very ostentatiously drove up and 
down before my window, driving the horses himself 
with the ladies sitting behind, as if he hoped to take 
the greatest revenge upon me in this way. I merely 
said: ‘If you are satisfied with him, it is nothing to me.’ 
It seems that in the world of to-day the ladies like the 
man, upon whom others have spat, whom others have 
insulted and kicked out !—they know all—well, I had 
no wish to quarrel with their taste. 

“ T determined just for that reason not to do anything 
mad. I would be clever. I would look down upon the 
world’s madness with contemplative philosophy, and 
merely carry out the clever jest of annulling my previ- 
ous will in which I had made Melanie my heiress, and 
which had been stored away in the county archive room, 
making another which I shall keep here at home, in 
which not a single mention is made of my niece. 

“ The wedding was solemnized with great pomp. 

“ Sarvélgyi did not complain of the expense incurred. 


332 Debts of Honor 


He thought to revenge himself on me. He collected 
all the friends he could from the vicinity: I too received 
a lithographed invitation. Look at that!” 

Topandy took the vellum from his pocket-book and 
handed it to Lorand. 


Dear Mr. Topanpy: 

It will give me great pleasure if you and your nephew Lo- 
rand Aronffy will accept our invitation to the wedding of my 
daughter Melanie and Joseph Gydali, at Mr. Sarvdlgyi’s house. 

EMILIA BALNOKHAZY, | 

“ Keep half for yourself.” 

“Thanks: I don’t want even the whole.” 

“ Well, it just happened to be Sunday. Sarvdlgyi 
chose that day, because it would cost so much less to 
array the village folk in holiday garb. He had the bells 
rung, so did the Vicar: every window and door was 
full of curious on-lookers. I too took my seat on the 
verandah to see the sight. 

“ The long line of carriages started. First the bride- 
groom with Sarvolgyi, after them the bride, dressed in 
a white lawn robe, and wearing, if I am not mistaken, 
many theatrical jewels.” 

Lorand interrupted impatiently: 

“You evidently think, uncle, that I shall write all 
this for some fashion-paper, as you are telling me in 
such detail about the costumes.” 

“T have learned it from English novel-writers: if a 
man wants to convince his hearers that something is 
true history and no fable, he must describe externals in 
detail, that they may see what an eye-witness he was.— 
Well, I shall leave out all description of the horses’ 
trappings. 

“As the long convoy proceeded up the street, a car- 
riage drawn by four horses clattered up from the oppo- 
site end, a county court official beside the coachman, be- 
hind, two gentlemen, one lean, the other, thickset. 

“When this equipage met the wedding procession, 
the lean gentleman stopped his carriage and called out 
to Paeldisiali coachman to bring his coach to a stand- 
still. 


The Mad Jest 333 


“The lean man leaped down from his carriage, the 
stout man after him, the official following them, and 
stepped up to the bridegroom. 

““Are you Joseph Gyalil?’ inquired the lean man, 
without any prefix. 

“*T am,’ he said, looking at the dust-covered man 
with angry hauteur, not comprehending by what right 
anyone could dare to stop him at such a time and to ad- 
dress him so curtly. 

“But the lean man seized the door of the carriage 
and said to the bridegroom: 

“*“ Well, sir, have you any soul?’ 

“Our dear friend could not comprehend what new 
form of greeting it was, to ask a man on the road 
whether he had a soul. 

“ But the lean man seemed to wish to know that at 
any cost. 

“«Sir, have you any soul?’ 

= Anat?” 

“Have you any soul, that you can lead an innocent 
maiden to the altar, in the position in which you are?’ 

“Who are you? And how dare you to address me?’ 

“*T am Miklés Daruszegi, county court magistrate, 
and have come to arrest you, in consequence of a proc- 
lamation of the High Court of Justice in Vienna, which 
has sent us instructions to arrest you wherever you 
may be found on the charge of several forgeries and de- 
ceits, in flagrante, and not to accept bail!’ 

“* But, sir—!’ 

““*’There is no chance for resistance. You knew al- 
ready in Vienna to what charge you were liable, and 
you came directly to Hungary in the hope that if you 
could ally yourself with some propertied lady, your 
honorable person might be defended, thus practising 
fresh deceit against others. And now again I ask you, 
whether you have the soul to wish, on the prison’s 
threshold, to drag an innocent maiden with you?’” 

“ Poor Melanie! ”—whispered Lorand. 

“ Poor Melanie naturally fainted, and the poor P. C.’s 
widow was beside herself with rage: poor Sarvélgyi 


334 Debts of Honor 


wept like a child: all the guests fled back to the house, 
and the bridegroom was compelled to descend from the 
bridal coach, and take his place in the magistrate’s 
muddy chaise, still wearing his costume covered with 
decorations: they supplied him with a rug, it is true, to 
cover himself with, but the heron-plumed hat remained 
on his head for the public wonder. 

“TI truly sympathised with the poor creatures! Still 
it seems I have survived that pain too.—lf only it had 
not happened in the street! Before the eyes of so many 
men! If I at least had not seen it! If only I might 
give a romantic version of the catastrophe. But such a 
prosaic ending! A bridegroom arrested for the forgery 
of documents at the church door!—His tragedy is 
surely over!” 

“ But according to that, Melanie did not become his 
wife?’ said Lorand. “ Melanie has not been married 
at.all-’* 

Topandy shook his head. 

“You are an impatient audience, nephew. Still I 
shall not hurry the performance. You must wait till I 
send a glass of absinthe down my throat, for my stomach 
turns at the very thought of what I am about to relate.” 

And he was not joking: he looked among the many 
chemicals for the bottle bearing the label ‘‘ absynthium,” 
and drank a small glass of it. Then he poured one out 
for Lorand. 

“You must drink too.” 

“T could not drink it, uncle,” said Lorand, full of 
other thoughts. 

“ But drink this glass, I tell you: until you do I shall 
not continue. What I am going to say is strong poison, 
and this is the antidote.” 

So Lorand drank, that he might hear what happened. 

“Well, my dear boy. You must dispense with the 
idea that Melanie is not a wife: Melanie two days ago 
married—Sarvolgyi! ” 

“Oh, that is only a jest!” exclaimed Lorand in- 
credulously. 

“ Of course it is a jest: only a very mad one. Who 


The Mad Jest 335 


could take such things seriously? Sarv6lgyi was jest- 
ing when he said to Madame Balnokhazy: ‘ Madame, 
there is a scandal—your daughter is neither a miss nor 
a Mrs. She is burdened both by loss and contempt. 
You cannot appear any more before the world after such 
a scandal. I have a good idea: we are trying to agree 
now about a property ; let us shake hands, and the bar- 
gain’s made, the property and the price of purchase re- 
main in the same hands..—Madame Balnokhazy too 
was jesting when she said to her daughter: ‘ My dear 
Melanie, we have fallen up to our necks in the mire, 
we cannot be very particular about the hand that is to 
drag us out. Lorand will never come back again, 
Gyali has deceived us; but only tit for tat,—for we de- 
ceived him with that tale of the regained property in 
which only one man believes,—honorable Sarvolgyi. If 
you accept his offer, you will be a lady of position, if 
not, you can come with me as a wandering actress. We 
can take our revenge upon them, for they hate Sarv- 
dlgyi too. And after all Sarvdlgyi is a very pleasant 
fellow..—And surely Melanie was jesting when two 
days later she said to the priest before the altar that in 
the whole world there was only one man whom she 
could deem worthy of her love, and he was Sarvolgyi.— 
I believe it was all a jest—but so it happened.” 

Lorand covered his face with his hands. 

“ A jest indeed, a fine jest fit to stir one’s blood,” To- 
pandy angrily burst out. “ That girl, whom I so loved, 
whom I treated as my child, who was to me an image 
of what they call womanly purity, throws herself away 
upon my most detested enemy, a loathsome corpse, 
whose body, soul, and spirit had already decayed. Why 
if she had returned broken-hearted to me, and said, ‘I 
have erred,’ I should have still received her with open 

‘arms: she should not thus have prostituted the feeling 
which I held for her. 

“Oh, my friend, there is nothing more repulsive in 
this round world, than a woman who can make herself 
thus loathed.” 

Lorand’s silence gave assent to this sentence, 


336 Debts of Honor 


“And now follows the madness I committed. 

“T said: if you jest, let me jest too. My house was 
at that moment full of gay companions, who were help- 
ing me to curse. But what is the value of curses? A 
mad idea occurred to me. I said: ‘If vou are holding 
a marriage feast yonder, I shall hold one here.’ You 
remember there was an old mangled-eared ass, used 
by the shepherd to carry the hides of slaughtered oxen, 
called by my servants, out of ridicule, Sarvolgyi. Then 
there was a beautiful thoroughbred colt, which Melanie 
chose betimes to bear her name. I dressed the ass and 
foal up as bridegroom and bride, one of the drunken 
revellers dressed as a ‘ monk’ and at the same time that 
Sarvolgyi and Melanie went to their wedding, here, in 
my courtyard, I parodied the holy ceremony in the per- 
sons of those two animals.” 

Lorand was horror stricken. 

“Tt was a mad idea: I acknowledge it,” continued 
Topandy. “ To ridicule religious ceremonies! That will 
cost me two years at least in the county prison: I shall 
not defend myself—I have deserved it. I shall put up 
with it. I knew it when I carried out this raving jest— 
I knew what the outcome would be. But if they had 
promised me all the good things that lie between the 
guardian of the Northern Dog-star and the emerald 
wings of the vine-dresser beetle, or if they had threat- 
ened me with all that exists down to the middle of the 
earth, down to hell, I should have done it, when once I 
had thought it out. I wanted a hellish revenge, and 
there it was. How hellish it was you may imagine from 
the fact that the jovial fellows at once sobered, disap- 
peared from the house; and since then one or two have 
written to beg me not to betray their presence here on 
that occasion. I am only pleased you were not here 
then.” 


not have happened.” 

“ Don’t say that, my dear boy. Don’t think too well 
of yourself. You don’t know what you would have felt, 
had you seen pass before you in a carriage her whom we 


“And I am sorry I was not. Had I been, it would 


The Mad Jest $37 


had idolized with him whom we detest so. It destroyed 
my reason. And even now I feel a terrible void in my 
soul. That girl occupied such a large place therein. I 
feel it is still more painful for me that I perpetrated such 
a trivial jest in her name, in her memory.—Still, it has 
happened and we cannot recall it. We have begun the 
campaign of hatred, and don’t know ourselves where it 
will end. Now let us speak of other things. During 
my imprisonment you will take over the farm and re- 
main here.” 

ee 

“But you have still another difficult matter to get 
through first.” 

“T know.” 

“Oh dear no. Why do you always wish to discover 
my thoughts ? You cannot know of what I am think- 

MRR a3 5 

“ That is not quite it. Though it did occur to me to 
ask how could I leave a young man and a young girl 
here all alone. Yet in that matter I have my own logic: 
the young man either has a heart or none at all. If he has 
a heart, he will either keep his distance from the girl, or, 
if he has loved her, he will not ask who her father and 
mother were or what her dowry is. He will estimate 
her at her own value for her own self—a faithful wom- 
an. If he has no heart, the girl must see to having 
more: she must defend herself. If neither has a heart, 
—well a daily occurrence will occur once more. Who 
has ever grieved over it? I have nothing to say in the 
matter. He who knows himself to be an animal, noth- 
ing more, is right: he who considers himself a higher 
being, a man, a noble man, is right too: and he who 
wishes to be an angel, is only vain. Whether you make 
the girl your mistress or your wife, is the affair of you 
two: it all depends which category of the physical world 
you desire to belong to. The one says, ‘I, a male ass, 
wish to graze with you, a female-ass, on thistles;’ or, 
‘IT, a man, wish to be your god, woman, to care for you.’ 
It is, as I say, a matter of taste and ideas. I entrust it 


338 Debts of Honor 


to you. But I have matter for serious anxiety here. 
Have you not remarked that here, round Lankadomb, 
an enormous number of robberies take place?” 

“Perhaps not more than elsewhere: only we do not 
know about the misfortunes of others.” 

“Oh, dear, no; our neighborhood is in reality the 
home of a far-reaching robber-band, whose dealings I 
have long followed with great attention. These 
marshes here around us afford excellent shelter to those 
who like to avoid the world.” 

“That is so everywhere. Fugitive servants, maraud- 
ing shepherds, bandits, who visit country houses to ask 
a drink of wine, bacon and bread,—I have met them 
often enough: I gave them from my purse as much as I 
pleased, and they went on their way peacefully.” 

“Here we have to deal with quite a different lot. 
Czipra might know more about it, if she chose to speak. 
That tent-dwelling army, out of whose midst I took her 
to myself, is lurking around us, and is more malicious 
than report says. They conceal their deeds splendidly, 
they are very cunning and careful. They are not con- 
fined to human society, they can winter among the 
reeds, and so are more difficult to get at than the 
mounted highwaymen, who hasten to enjoy the goods 
they have purloined in the inns. They have never dared 
to attack me at home, for they know I am ready to re- 
ceive them. Still, they have often indirectly laid me 
under obligation. They have often robbed Czipra, when 
she went anywhere alone. You were yourself a witness 
to one such event. I suspect that the robber-chief 
who strove with Czipra in the inn was Czipra’s own 
father.” 

“ Heavens! I wonder if that can be so.” 

“Czipra always closed their mouths with a couple 
of hundred florins, and then they remained quiet. Per- 
haps she threatened them in case they annoyed me. It 
may be that up to the present they have not molested us 
in order to please her. But it may be, too, that they 
have another reason for making Lankadomb their centre 
of operations. Do you remember that on the pistol you 


The Mad Jest 339 


wrenched from that robber were engraved the arms of 
Sarvolgyi?” 

“What are you hinting at, uncle?” 

“T think Sarvolgyi is the chieftain of the whole high- 
wayman-band.”’ 

“What brought you to that idea?” 

“The fact that he is such a pious man. Still, let 
us not go into that now. The gist of the matter is, that 
I would like to relieve our district of this suspicious 
guest, before I begin my long visit.” 

“ How?” 

“We must burn up that old hay-rick, of which I 
have said so many times that it has inhabitants summer 
and winter.” 

“Do you think that will drive them from our neigh- 
borhood?” 

“T am quite sure of it. This class is cowardly. 
They will soon turn out of any place where war is de- 
clared against them: they only dare to brawl as long 
as they find people are afraid of them: wolf-like they 
tear to pieces only those they find defenceless: but 
one wisp of burning straw will annihilate them. We 
must set the rick on fire.” 

“We could have done so already ; but it is difficult to 
reach it, on account of the old peat-quarries.” 

“ Which our dangerous neighbors have covered with 
wolf traps, so that one cannot approach the rick within 
rifle-shot.” 

“T often wished to go there, but you would not al- 
low me.” 

“Tt would have been an unreasonable audacity. 
Those who dwell there could shoot down, from secure 
hiding-places, any who approached it, before the latter 
could do them any harm. I have a simpler plan: we 
two shall take our seats in the punt, row down the dyke, 
and when we come against the rick, we shall set it on 
fire with explosive bullets. The rick is mine, no longer 
rented: all whom it may concern must seek lodging 
elsewhere.” 

Lorand said it was a good plan: whatever Topandy 


340 Debts of Honor 


desired he would agree to. He might declare war 
against the bandits, for all he cared. 

That evening, guided by moonlight, they poled their 
way to the centre of the marsh: Lorand himself directed 
the shots, and was lucky enough to lodge his first shell 
in the side of the rick. Soon the dry mass of hay was 
flaming like a burning pyramid in the midst of the 
morass. The two besiegers had reached home long 
before the blazing rick had time to light up the district 
far. As they watched, all at once the flame scattered, 
exploding millions of sparks up to heaven, and the frag- 
ments of the burning rick were strewed on the water’s 
surface by the wind. Surely hidden gunpowder had 
caused that explosion. 

At that moment no one was at home in this barbarous 
dwelling. Not a single voice was heard during the 
bare save the howling of the terrified wolves round 
about. 


CHAPTER XXV 
WHILE THE MUSIC SOUNDS 


At Lankadomb the order of things had changed. 

After the famous scandal, Topandy’s dwelling was 
very quiet—no guest crossed its threshold: while at 
Sarvolgyi’s house there was an entertainment every 
evening, sounds of music until dawn of day. 

They wished to show that they were in a gay mood. 

Sarvélgyi began to win fame among the gypsies. 
These wandering musicians began to reckon his house 
among one of their happy asylums, so that even the 
bands of neighboring towns came to frequent it, one 
handing on the news of it to the other. 

The young wife loved amusement, and her husband 
was glad if he could humor her—perhaps he had other 
thoughts, too? 

Sarvélgyi himself did not allow his course of life to 
be disturbed: after ten o’clock he regularly left the 
company, going first to devotions and these having been 
attended to, to sleep. 

His spouse remained under the care of her mother 
—in very good hands. 

And, after all, SarvGigyi was no intolerable husband: 
he did not persecute his young wife with signs of ten- 
derness or jealousy. 

In reality he acted as one who merely wished, under 
the guise of marriage to save a victim, to free an inno- 
cent, caluminated, unfortunate girl in the most humane 
way from desperation. 

It was a good deed,—friendship, nothing more. 

Sarvélgyi’s bedroom was separated from the rest of 
the dwelling house by a kind of corridor, bricked in, 
where the musicians were usually placed, for the obvi- 


341 


342 Debts of Henor 


ous reason that the sun-burnt artists are passionately 
fond of chewing tobacco. 

This mistaken arrangement was the cause of two 
evils: firstly, the master of the house, lying on his bed, 
could hear all night long the beautiful waltzes and 
mazurkas to which his wife was dancing; secondly, 
being obliged to pass through the gypsies on his way 
from the ball-room to his bedroom, he came in for sc 
many expressions of gratitude on their part that his 
quiet retirement gave rise to a most striking uproar, 
disagreeable alike to himself, to his wife, and his guests. 

He called the brown worthies to order often enough: 
“Don’t express your gratitude, don’t kiss my hand. I 
am not going away anywhere: ” but they would not al- 
low themselves to be cheated of their opportunity for 
grateful speeches. 

One night in particular an old, one-eyed czimbalom- 
player, whose sole remaining eye was bound up—he had 
only joined the band that day—would not permit him- 
self to be over-awed: he seized the master’s hand, kissed 
every finger of it in turn, then every nail: “ God recom- 
pense you for what you intend to give, muitiply your 
family like the sparrows in the fields: may your life be 
ke-honey-.o 6-02, 

“All right, foolish daddy,” interrupted Sarvolgyi. 
“ A truce to your blessings. Get you gone. Mistress 
Borcsa will give you a glass of wine as a reward.” 

But the gypsy would not yield: he hobbled after the 
master into his bedroom, opening the door vigorously, 
and thrusting in his shaggy head. 

“ But if God call from the world of shadows. . . 

“Go to hell: enough of your gratitude.” 

But the czimbalom-player merely closed the door 
from the inside and followed his righteous benefactor. 

“ Golden-winged angels in a wagon of diamonds. .’ 

“Get out this moment!” cried Sarvoélgyi, hastily 
looking for a stick to drive the flatterer out of his room. 

But at that moment the gypsy sprang upon him like 
a panther, grasping his throat with one hand and plac- 
ing a pointed knife against his chest with the other. 


” 


’ 


a 


While the Music Sounds 343 


“Oh! ”—panted the astonished Sarvélgyi. ‘‘ Who 
are you? What do you want?” 

“Who am I?” murmured the fiend in reply, looking 
like the panther when it has set its teeth in its victim’s 
neck. “I am Kandur, * the mad Kandur. Have you 
ever seen a mad Kandur? That is what 1am. Don’t 
you know me now?” 

“What do you want?” 

“What do I want? Your bones and your skin: your 
black blood. You highwayman! You robber!” 

So saying, he tore the bandage from his eye: there 
was nothing amiss with that eye. 

“Do you know me now, herdsman? ” 

It would have been in vain to scream. Outside the 
most uproarious music could be heard: no one would 
have heard the cry for help. Besides the assailed had 
another reason for holding his peace. 

“Well, what do you want with me? What have I 
done to you? Why do you attack me?” 

“What have you done?”’ said the gypsy, gnashing 
his teeth so that Sarvélgyi shivered—this gnashing of 
human teeth is a terrible sound. ‘‘ What have you 
done? You ask that? Have you not robbed me? Eh?” 

“T robbed you? Don't lose your senses. Let go of 
my throat. You see, Iam in your hands anyhow. Talk 
sense. What has happened to you?”’ 

“What has happened to me? Oh yes—act as if you 
had not seen that beautiful illumination the day before 
yesterday evening—that’s right—when the rick was 
burned down, and then the gunpowder dispersed the 
fire, so that nothing but a black pit remained for mad 
Kandur.” 

Saw at. 

“That was your work,” cried the fiend, raising high 
the flashing knife. 

“Now, Kandur, have some sense. Why should J 
have set it on fire?” 

“Because no one else could have known that my 


* Tom-cat. 


344 Debts of Honor 


money was stored away there. Who eise would have 
dreamed I had money, but you? You who always 
changed my bank-note into silver and gold, giving me 
one silver florin for a small bank-note, and one gold 
piece for a large one. How do I know what was the 
value of each?—You knew I collected money. You 
knew how I collected, and why—for I told you. My 
daughter is in a certain gentleman’s house; they are 
making a fool of her there. They are bringing her up 
like a duchess, until they have plucked her blossoms,— 
and then they will throw her away like a wash-rag. I 
wished to buy her off! I had already a pot of silver 
and a milk-pail of gold. I wanted to take her away with 
me to Turkey, to Tartary, where heathens dwell; and 
she would be a real duchess, a gypsy duchess! I shall 
murder, rob, and break into houses until I have a pot 
full of silver, and a pail full of gold. The gypsy girl 
will want it as her dowry. I shall not leave her for you, 
you white-faced porcelain tribe! I shall take her away 
to some place where they will not say “ Away gypsy! off 
gypsy! Kiss my hand, eat carrion, gypsy, gypsy! ’— 
Give me my money.” 

“ Kandur.” 

“Don’t gape, or tire your mouth. Give me a pot of 
silver, and a pail of gold.” 

“ All right, Kandur, you shall get your money—a pot 
of silver and a pail of gold. But now let me have my 
say. It was not I who took your money, not I who set 
the rick on fire.” 

“Who then? ” 

“Why those people yonder.” 

“ Topandy, and the young gentleman?” 

“Certainly. The day before yesterday evening I 
saw them in a punt on the moat, starting for the morass, 
and J saw them when they returned again—the rick was 
then already burning. Each of them had a gun: but I 
did not hear a single shot, so they were not after game.” 

“ The devil and all his hell-hounds destroy them! ”’ 

“Why, Kandur, your daughter was mad after that 
young gentleman—she certainly confessed to him that 


While the Music Sounds 345 


her father was collecting treasures: so the young gen- 
tleman took off daughter and money too—he will 
shortly return the empty pot.” 

“Then [ shall kill him.” 

“What did you say, Kandur?” 

“T shall kill him, even if he has a hundred souls. 
Long ago I promised him, when first we met. But 
now I wish to drink of his blood. Did you see whether 
the old mastiff too was there at the robbing?” 

“Topandy? A plague upon my eyes, if I did not 
see him. There were two of them, they took no one 
with them, not even a dog: they rowed along here be- 
side the gardens. I looked long after them, and waited 
till they should return. May every saint be merciless to 
me, if I don’t speak the truth!” 

“Then I shall murder both.” 

“ But be careful: they go armed.” 

“ What ?—If I wish I can have a whole host. If I 
wish I can ravish the whole village in broad daylight. 
You do not yet know who Kandur is.”’ 

“ T know well who you are, Kandur,” said Sarvolgyi, 
carefully studying the robber’s browned face. “ Why 
we are old acquaintances. It is not you who are re- 
sponsible for the deeds you have done, but society. 
Humankind rose up against you, you merely defended 
yourself as best you could. That is why I always took 
your part, Kandur.” 

“No nonsense for me now,” interrupted the robber 
hastily. ‘I don’t mind what I am. I am a highway- 
man. I like the name.” 

“You had no ignoble pretext for robbing,—but the 
saving of your daughter from the whirlpool of crime. 
The aim was a laudable one, Kandur: besides you were 
particular as to whom you fleeced.” 

“Don’t try to save me—you’ll have enough to do to 
save yourself soon in hell, before the devil’s tribunal— 
you may lie his two eyes out, if you want. I have been 
a highwayman, have killed and robbed—even clergy- 
men. I want to kill now, too,” 

“TI shall pray for your soul.” 


’ 


346 Debts of Honor 


“ The devil! Man, do you think I care? Prayer is 
just about as potent with you as with me. Better givea 
pile of money to enable me to collect a band. My men 
must have money.” 

“ All right, Kandur: don’t be angry, Kandur :—you 
know I’m awfully fond of you. I have not persecuted 
you like others. I have always spoken gently to you 
and have always sheltered you from your persecutors. 
No one ever dared to look for you in my house.” 

“ No more babbling—just give over the money.” 

“Very well, Kandur. Hold your cap.” 

Sarvolgyi stepped up to a very strong iron safe, and 
unfastening the locks one by one, raised its heavy door 
—placing the candle on a chair beside him. 

The robber’s eyes gleamed. Sufficient silver to fill 
many pots was piled up there. 

“ Which will you have? silver or bank-notes? ” 

“ Silver,” whispered the robber. 

“Then hold your cap.” 

Kandur held his lamb-skin cap in his two hands like 
a pouch, and placed his knife between his teeth. 

Sarvolgyi dived deeply into the silver pile with his 
hand, and when he drew it back, he held before the rob- 
ber’s nose a double-barrelled pistol, ready cocked. 

It was a fine precaution—a pistol beautifully covered 
up by 2 heap of coins. 

The robber staggered back, and forgot to withdraw 
the knife from his mouth. And so he stood before Sar- 
volgyi, a knife between his teeth, his eyes wide opened, 
and his two hands stretched before him in self-defence. 

“You see,” said Sarvélgyi calmly, “I might shoot 
you now, did I wish. You are entirely in my power. 
But see, I spoke the truth to you.u—Hold your cap and 
take the money.” 

| He put the pistol down beside him and took out a 
goodly pile of dollars. 

“A plague upon your jesting eyes!” hissed the rob- 
ber through the knife. “ Why do you frighten a fellow ? 
The darts of Heaven destroy you!” 

He was still trembling, so frightened had he been. 


While the Music Sounds 347 


The loaded weapon in another's hand had driven away 
all his courage. 

The robber could only be audacious, not courageous. 

“ Hold your cap.” 

Sarvélgyi shovelled the heap of silver coins into the 
robber’s cap. 

‘““Now perhaps you can believe it is not fear that 
makes me confide in you?” 

‘““A plague upon you. How you alarmed me!” 

“ Well, now collect your wits and listen to me.” 

The robber stuffed the money into his pockets and 
listened with contracted eyebrows. 

“You may see it was not I who stole your money; 
for, had I done so, I should just now have planted two 
bullets in your carcass, one in your heart, the other in 
your skull. And I should have got one hundred gold 
pieces by it, that being the price on your head.” 

The robber smiled bashfully, like one who is flattered. 
He took it as a compliment that the county had put a 
price of one hundred gold pieces on his head. 

“You may be quite sure that it was not I, but those 
folks yonder, who took away your money.” 

“ The highwaymen!” 

“You are right—highwaymen:—worse even than 
that. Atheists! The earth will be purified if they are 
wiped out. He who kills them is doing as just an action 
as the man that shoots a wolf or a hawk.” 

“ True, true;”’ Kandur nodded assent. 

“ This rogue who stole away your daughter laid a 
snare for another innocent creature. He must have two, 
one for his right hand, the other for his left. And when 
the persecuted innocent girl escaped from the deceiver 
to my house and became my wife, those folks yonder 
swore deadly revenge against me. Because I rescued 
an innocent soul from the cave of crime, they thrice 
wished to slay me. Once they poured poison into my 
drinking-well. Fortunately the horses drank of the 
water first and all fell sick from it. Then they drove 
mad dogs out in the streets, when I was walking there, 
to tear me to pieces. They sent me letters, which, had 


348 Debts of Honor 


I opened them, would have gone off in my hands and 
blown me to pieces. These malicious fellows wish to 
kill me.” 

“T understand.” 

“ That young stripling thinks that if he succeeds he 
can carry off my wife too, so as to have her for his 
mistress one day, Czipra, your daughter, the next.”’ 

“ You make my anger boil within me! ” 

“ They acknowledge neither God nor law. They do 
as they please. When did you last see your daughter? ” 

“Two weeks ago.” 

“ Did you not see how worn she is? That cursed fel- 
low has enchanted her and is spoiling her.” 

“T’ll spoil his head! ” 

“What will you do with him?” 

Kandur showed, with the knife in his hand, what 
he would do—bury that in his heart and twist it round 
therein. 

“ How will you get at him? He has always a gun in 
the daytime: he acts as if he were going a-shooting. At 
night the castle is strongly locked, and they are always 
on the lookout for an attack,—they too are audacious 
fellows.” 

“ Just leave it to me. Don’t have any fears. What 
Kandur undertakes is well executed. Crick, crick: 
that’s how I shall break both the fellows’ necks.” 

“ You are a clever rascal. You showed that in your 
way of getting at me! You may do the same there, by 
dressing your men as fiddlers and clarinet-players.” 

“Oh ho! Don’t think of it. Kandur doesn’t play 
the same joke twice. I shall find the man I want.” 

“ T’ve still something to say. It would be good if you 
could have them under control before they die.” 

“I know—make them confess where they have put 
my money which they stole?” 

“Don’t begin with that. Supposing they will not 
confess? ” 

“ Have no fears on that score. I know how to drive 
screws under finger-nails, to strap up heads, so that 


While the Music Sounds 349 


a man would even confess to treasures hidden in his 
father’s coffin.”’ 

“Listen to me. Do what I say. Don’t try long to 
trace your stolen money: it’s not much—a couple of 
thousand florins. If you don’t find it, I shall give you 
as much—as much as you can carry in your knapsack. 
You can, however, find something else there.” 

“What?” 

“A letter, sealed with five black seals.” 

“A letter? with five black seals?” 

“And to prevent them making a fool of you, and 
blinding you with some other letter which you cannot 
read, note the arms on the respective seals. On the 
first is a fish-tailed mermaid, holding a half-moon in her 
hand—those are the Aronffy arms:—on the second a 
stork, three ears of corn in its talons—those are the 
High Sheriff's arms: on the third a semi-circle, from 
which a unicorn is proceeding,—those are the Nyarady 
arms ; the fourth is a crown in a hand holding a sword 
—those are the lawyer’s arms. The fifth, which must be 
in the middle, bears Topandy’s arms,—a crowned 
snake.” 

The robber reckoned after him on his fingers: 

“ Mermaid with half moon—stork with ears of corn— 
a half circle with unicorn—crown with sword-hand— 
snake with crown. I shall not forget. And what do 
you want the letter for?” 

“That too I shall explain to you, that you may see 
into the innermost depths of my thoughts and may 
judge how seriously I long to see the completion of that 
which I have entrusted to you. That letter is Topandy’s 
latest will. While my wife was living with him, To- 
pandy, believing she would wed his nephew, left his 
fortune to his niece and her future husband, and handed 
it in to the county court to be guarded. But when his 
niece became my wife, he wrote a new will, and had 
all those, whose arms I have mentioned, sign it; then 
he sealed it but did not send it to the court like the for- 
mer one; he kept it here to make the jest all the greater, 


350 Debts of Honor 


thinking we stand by the former will. Then the latter 
will comes to light, making void the former—and ex- 
cluding my wife from all.” 

“Aha! I see now what a clever fellow you are!” 

“Well, could that five-sealed letter come into my 
hands, and old Topandy die by chance, without being 
able to write another will—well, you know what that 
little paper might be worth in my hands?” 

“Of course. Castle, property, everything. All that 
would fall to you—the old will would give it you. I un- 
derstand: I see—now I know what a wise fellow you 
are 

“Do you believe now that if you come to me with that 
letier cs! eo2' iH 

The robber bent nearer confidingly, and whispered in 
his ear: 

“ And with the news that your neighbors died sud- 
denly and could not write another.” 

“Then you need have no fear as to how much money 
you will get in place of what they stole. You may go 
off with your daughter to Tartary, where no one will 
prosecute you.” 

“ Excellent—couldn’t be better. Leave the rest to 
me. Two days later Kandur will have no need to in- 
dulge in such work.” 

Then he began to count on his fingers, as if he were 
reckoning to himself. 

“ Well, in the first place, I get money—in the second, 
I have my revenge—in the third, I take away Czipra,— 
in the fourth, I shall have my fill of human blood,—in 
the fifth, I get money again.—It shall be done.” 

The two shook hands on the bargain. The robber left 
by the same door through which he had entered; Sar- 
volgyi went to bed, like one who has done his business 
well; and in the corridor the gypsies still played the 
newest waltz, which Melanie and Madame Balnokhazy 
were enjoying with flushed faces amidst the gay as- 
sembly. 


; 
é 
‘ 
/ 
: 





CHAPTER XXVI 
THE ENCHANTMENT OF LOVE 


How many secrets there are under the sun, awaiting 
discovery! 

Books have been written about the superstitions of 
nations long since passed away: men of science have 
collected the enchantments of people from all quarters 
of the globe: yet of one thing they have not spoken 
yet: of that unending myth, which lives unceasingly 
and is born again in woman’s heart and in the heated 
atmosphere of love. 

Sweet are the enchantments of love! 

“Tf I drink unseen from thy glass, and thou dost 
drain it after me:—thou drinkest love therefrom, and 
shalt pine for me, darling, as I have pined for thee. 

“Tf at night I awake in dreams of thee and turn my 
pillow under my head: thou too wilt have as sweet 
dreams of me, as I of thee, my darling. 

“Tf I bind my ring to a lock of thy hair thou hast 
given me, and cast the same into a glass, as often as it 
beats against the side of the glass, so many years wilt 
thou love me, darling. 

“ Tf I can sew a lock of my hair into the edge of thy 
linen garment, thy heart will pine for me, as often as 
thou puttest the same on, my darling. 

“Tf, in thinking of thee, I pricked my finger, thou 
wert then faithless to me, darling. 

“ Tf the door opens of itself, thou wert then thinking 
of me, and thy sigh opened the door, my darling. 

“Tf a star shoots in the sky, and I suddenly utter thy 
name as it shoots, thou must then at once think of me, 
darling. 


35* 


352 Debts of Honor 


“ If my ear tingles, I hear news of thee: if my cheeks 
burn, thou art speaking of me, my darling. 

“Tf my scissors fall down and remain upright, I shall 
see thee soon, darling. 

“Tf the candle runs down upon me, then thou dost 
love another, my darling. 

“Tf my ring turns upon my finger, then thou wilt be 
the cause of my death, darling.” 

In every object, in every thought lives the mythology 
of love, like the old-world deities with which poets per- 
sonified grass, wood, stream, ocean and sky. 

The petals of the flowers speak of it, ask whether he 
loves or not: the birds of song on the house-tops: 
everything converses of love: and what maiden is there 
who does not believe what they say? 

Poor maidens! 

If they but knew how little men deserved that the 
world of prose should receive its polytheism of love from 
them! 

Poor Czipra! 

What a slave she was to her master! 

Her slavery was greater than that of the Creole 
maiden whose every limb grows tired in the service of 
her master :—every thought of hers served her lord. 

From morn till even, nothing but hope, envy, tender 
flattery, trembling anxiety, the ecstasy of delight, the 
bitterness of resignation, the burning ravings of pas- 
sion, and cold despair, striving unceasingly with each 
other, interchanging, gaining new sustenance from 
every word, every look of the youth she worshipped. 

And then from twilight till dawn ever the same aa 
gle, even in dreams. 

“Tf I were thy dog, you would not treat me so.’ 

That is what she once said to Lorand. 

And why? Perhaps because he passed her without 
so much as shaking hands with her. 

And at another time: 

“ Were I in Heaven, I could not be happier.” 

Perhaps a fleeting embrace had made her happy 
again. 


The Enchantment of Love 353 


How little is enough to bring happiness or sorrow 
to poor maidens. 

One day an old gypsy woman came by chance into the 
courtyard. 

In the country it is not the custom to drive away 
these poor vagrants: they receive corn, and scraps of 
meat: they must live, too. 

Then they tell fortunes. Who would not wish to have 
his fortune so cheaply. 

And the gypsy woman’s deceitful eye very soon finds 
out whose fortune to tell, and how to tell it. 

But Czipra was not glad to see her. 

She was annoyed at the idea that the woman might 
recognize her by her red-brown complexion, and her 
burning black eyes, and might betray her origin before 
the servants. She tried to escape notice. 

But the gypsy woman did remark the beautiful girl 
and addressed her as “ my lady.” 

“TI kiss your dear little feet, my lady.” 

“My lady? Don’t you see I am a servant, and cook 
in the kitchen: my sleeves are tucked up and I wear an 
apron.” 

“But surely not. A serving maid does not hold her 
head so upright and cannot show her anger so. If your 
ladyship frowns on me I feel like hiding in the corner, 
just to escape from the anger in your eyes. 

“Well if you know so much, you must also know 
that I am married, fool! ” 

The gypsy woman slyly winked. 

“T am no fool: my eyes are not bad. I know the 
wild dove from the tame. You are no married woman, 
young lady: you are still a maiden. I have looked into 
the eyes of many girls and women: I know which is 
which. A girl’s eye lurks beneath the eyelids, as if she 
were looking always out of an ambuscade, as if she 
were always afraid somebody would notice her. A 
woman's eye always flashes as if she were looking for 
somebody. When a girl says in jest ‘I am a married 
woman,’ she blushes: if she were a woman, she would 
smile. You are certainly still unmarried, young lady.” 


354 Debts of Honor 


Czipra was annoyed at having opened a conversation 
with her. She felt that her face was really burning. 
She hastened to the open fire-place, driving the servant 
away that she might put her burning face down to the 
flaming fire. 

The gypsy woman became more obtrusive, seeing she 
had put the girl to confusion. She sidled up to her. 

“TI see more, beautiful young lady. The girl that 
blushes quickly has much sorrow and many desires. 
Your ladyship has joy and sorrow too.” 

“ Oh, away with you!” exclaimed Czipra hastily. 

It is not so easy to get rid of a gypsy woman, once 
she has firmly planted her foot. 

“Yet I know a very good remedy for that.” 

“T have already told you to be off.” 

“ Which will make the bridegroom as tame as a lamb 
that always runs after its mistress.” 

“T don’t want your remedies.” 

“Tt is no potion I am talking of, merely an enchant- 
ment.” 

“ Throw her out!’ Czipra commanded the servants. 

“You won’t throw me out, girls: rather listen to what 
Isay. Which of you would like to know what you must 
do to enchant the young fellows so that even if every 
particle of them were full of falsity, they could not de- 
ceive you in their affection. Well, Susie: I see you're 
laughing at it. And you, Kati? Why, I saw your 
Joseph speaking to the bailiff’s daughter at the fence: 
this spell would do him no harm.” 

All the grinning serving-maids, instead of rescuing 
Czipra from the woman, only assisted the latter in her 
siege. They surrounded her and even cut off Czipra’s 
way, waiting curiously for what the gypsy would say. 

“Tt is a harmless remedy, and costs nothing.” 

The gypsy woman drew nearer to Czipra. 

“ When at midnight the nightingale sings below your 
window, take notice on what branch it sat. Go out bare- 
footed, break down that branch, set it in a flower-pot, 
put it in your window, sprinkle it with water from your 


The Enchantment of Love 355 


mouth : before the branch droops, your lover will return, 
and will never leave you again.” 

The girls laughed loudly at the gypsy woman’s en- 
chantment. 

The woman held her hand out before Czipra in cring- 
ing supplication. 

“ Dear, beautiful young lady, scorn not to reward 
me with something for the blessing of God.” 

Czipra’s pocket was always full of all kinds of small 
coins, of all values, according to the custom of those 
days—when one man had to be paid in coppers, an- 
other in silver. Czipra filled her hand and began to 
search among the mass for the smallest copper, a 
kreutzer,* as the correct alms for a beggar. 

“ Golden lady,” the gypsy woman thanked her. “I 
have just such a girl at home for sale, not so beautiful 
as you, but just as tall. She too has a bridegroom, who 
will take her off as soon as he can.” 

Czipra now began to choose from the silver coins. 

“ But he cannot take her, for we have not money 
enough to pay the priest.” 

Czipra picked out the largest of the silver coins and 
gave it to the gypsy woman. 

The latter blessed her for it. “ May God reward you 
with a handsome bridegroom, true in love till death!” 

Then she shuffled on her way from the house. 

Czipra reflectingly hummed to herself the refrain: 


‘* A gypsy woman was my mother.’”’ 


And Czipra meditated. 

How prettily thought speaks! If only the tongue 
could utter all the dumb soul speaks to itself! 

“ Why art thou what thou art? 

“‘ Whether another’s or mine, if only I had never seen 
thee! 

“Either love me in return, or do not ask me to love 
thee at all. 


* One-half of a penny. 


356 Debts of Honor 


“ Be either cold or warm, but not lukewarm. 

“ If in passing me, thou didst neither look at me, nor 
turn away, that would be good too: if sitting beside me 
thou shouldst draw me to thee, thou wouldst make me 
happy :—thou comest, smilest into mine eyes, graspest 
my hand, speakest tenderly to me, and then passest by. 

“ A hundred times I think that, if thou dost not ad- 
dress me, I shall address thee: if thou dost not ask me, 
I shall look into thine eyes, and shall ask thee: 

“* Dost thou love me?’ 

“Tf thou lovest, love truly. 

“Why, I do not ask thee to bring down the moon 
from the heavens to me: merely, to pluck the rose from 
the branch. 

“Tf thou pluckest it, thou canst tear it, and scatter 
its leaves upon the earth, thou must not wear it in thy 
hat, and answer with blushes, if they ask thee who 
gave it thee. Thou canst destroy it and tear it. A 
gypsy girl gave it. 

“Tf thou lovest, why dost thou not love truly? If 
thou dost not love me, why dost thou follow me? 

“Tf thou knewest thou didst not love me, why didst 
thou decoy me into thy net? 

“He has cast a spell upon me: yet I would be of the 
race of witches. 

“TI know nothing. I am no wizard, my eye has no 
power. 

“Tf I address him once, I kill him and myself. 

“Or perhaps only myself. 

“ And shall I not speak? ” 

The poor girl’s heart was full of reverie, but her eyes, 
her mouth, and her hand were busy with domestic work: 
she did not sit to gaze at the stars, to mourn over her 
instrument: she looked to her work, and they said “ she 
is an enthusiastic housekeeper.” 

“Good day, Czipra.”’ 

She had even observed that Lorand was approaching 
her from behind, when she was whipping out cream in 
the corridor, and he greeted her very tenderly. 

She expected him at least to stop as long as at other 


The Enchantment of Love Cat 


times to ask what she was cooking; and she would 
have answered with another question: 

“Tell me now, what do you like? ” 

But he did not even stop: he had come upon her 
quite by chance, and as he could not avoid her, uttered 
a mere “ good day:” then passed by. He was looking 
for Topandy. 

Topandy was waiting for him in his room and was 
busy reading a letter he had just opened. 

“Well, my boy,” he said, handing Lorand the letter, 
“That is the overture of the opera.” 

Lorand took the letter, which began: “ I offer my re- 
spects to Mr. ‘1 

“This is a summons?” 

“You may see from the greeting. The High Sheriff 
informs me that to-morrow morning he will be here to 
hold the legal inquiry: you must give orders to the 
servants for to-morrow.” 

“Sir, you still continue to take it as a joke.” 

“And a curious joke too. How well I shall sweep 
the streets! Ha, ha!” 

“cc Ah! 9 

“In chains too. I always mocked my swine-herd, 
who for a year and a half wore out the county court’s 
chains. Ever since he walks with a shambling step, 
as if one leg was always trying to avoid knocking the 
other with the chain. Now we can both laugh at each 
other.” 

“It would be good to engage a lawyer.” 

“Tt will certainly be better to send a sucking pig to 
the gaoler. Against such pricks, my boy, there is no 
kicking. This is like a cold bath: if a man enters slowly, 
bit by bit, his teeth chatter: if he springs in at once, it is 
even pleasant. Let us talk of more serious matters.” 

‘“‘T just came because I wish to speak to my uncle 
about a very serious matter.” 

“ Well, out with it.” 

“T intend to marry Czipra.” 

Topandy looked long into the young fellow’s face, 
and then said coldly, 





358 Debts of Honor 


“Why will you marry her?” 

“ Because she is an honest, good girl.” 

Topandy shook his head. 

“That is not sufficient reason for marrying her.” 

“ And is faithful to me. I owe her many debts of 
gratitude. When I was ill, no sister could have nursed 
me more tenderly: if I was sad, her sorrow exceeded 
my own.” 

“That is not sufficient reason, either.” 

“ And because I am raised above the prejudices of the 
world.” 

“Aha! magnanimity! Liberal ostentation? That 
is not sufficient reason either for taking Czipra to wife. 
The neighboring Count took his housekeeper to wife, 
just in order that people might speak of him: you have 
not even the merit of originality. Still not sufficient 
reason for marrying her.” 

“T shall take her to wife, because I love her. . . 

Topandy immediately softened: his usual strain of 
sarcastic scorn gave way to a gentler impulse. 

“That’s another thing. That is the only reason that 
can justify your marriage with her. How long have 
you loved her?” 

“T cannot count the days. I was always pleased to 
see her: I always knew [ loved her like a good sister. 
The other I worshipped as an angel: and as soon as she 
ceased to be an angel for me, as a mere woman I felt 
none of the former fire towards her: nothing remained, 
not even smoke nor ashes. But this girl, whose every 
foible I know, whose beauty was enhanced by no rev- 
erie, whom I only saw as she really is,—I love her now, 
as a faithful woman, who repays love in true coin: and 


” 





I shall marry her—not out of gratitude, but because she _ 


has filled my heart.” 

“Tf that is all you want, you will find that. What — 
shall you do first?” 

“T shall first write to my mother, and tell her I have 
found this rough diamond whom she must accept as 
her daughter: then I shall take Czipra to her, and she 
shall stay there until she is baptized and I take her away 


again.” 


The Enchantment of Love 359 


“Tam very thankful that you will take all the burden 
of this ceremony off my shoulders. What must be done 
by priests, do without my seeing it. When shall you tell 
Czipra?”’ 

“As soon as mother’s answer comes back.” 

“ And if your mother opposes the marriage? ” 

“T shall answer for that.” 

“Still it is possible. She may have other aims for 
you. What should you do then?” 

“ Then?” said Lorand reflectively : after a long pause 
he added: “ Poor mother has had so much sorrow on 
my account.” 

“I know that.” 

“ She has pardoned me all.” 

“She loves you better than her other son.” 

“ And I love her better than I loved my father.” 

“That is a hard saying.” 

“But if she said ‘You must give up forever either 
this girl or me,’ I would answer her, and my heart 
would break, ‘ Mother, tear me from your heart, but I 
shall go with my wife.’” 

Topandy offered his hand to Lorand. 

“That was well said.” 

“ But I have no anxiety about it. Mountebank pride 
never found a place in our family: we have sought for 
happiness, not for vain connections, and Czipra belongs 
to those girls whom women love even better than men. 
I have a good friend at home, my brother, and my dear 
sister-in-law will use her influence in my favor.” 

“And you have an advocate elsewhere, in one who, 
despite all his godlessness, has a man’s feelings, and will 
say: ‘ The girl has no name; here is mine, let her take 
iat.” 

Topandy did not try to prevent Lorand from kissing 
his hand. 


* * * * * 


Poor Czipra! Why did she not hear this? 


CHAPTER XXVII 
WHEN THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS 


THE night following upon this day was a sleepless 
one for Czipra. 

Every door of the castle was already closed: it was 
Lorand’s custom to look for himself and see that the 
bolts were firmly fastened. Then he would knock at 
Czipra’s door and bid her good-night; Czipra recipro- 
cated the good wish, and Lorand turned into his room. 
The last creaking door was silent. 

“Good night! Good night! But who gives the good 
night?” 5 

Every day Czipra felt more strongly what an inter- 
minable void can exist in a heart which lacks—God. 

If it sorrows, to whom shall it complain ?—if it has. 
aspirations to whom can it pray? if terrors threaten it, 
to whom shall it appeal for help and courage? if in de- 
spair, from whom shall it ask hope? 

When the heavy beating of her heart prevents a poor 
girl from closing her eyes, she tosses sleeplessly where 
she lies, agonised with unknown suspicions, and there 
is no one before her mind, from whom she can ask, 
“ Lord, is this a presentiment of my approaching death, 
or my approaching health? What annoys, what terri- 
fies, what allures, what fills my heart with a sweet 
thrill? Oh, Lord, be with me.” 

The poor neglected girl only felt this, but could 
not express it. 

She knelt on her bed, clasped her hands on her 
breast, raised her face, and collected every thought of 
her heart—how ought one to pray? What may be that 
word, which should bring God nearer? What sayings, 
what enchantments could bring the Great Being, the 
all-powerful, down from the heavens? What philosophy 


360 


When the Nightingale Sings 361 


was that, which all men concealed from one another and 
only spoke of to each other in secret, in the form of let- 
ters, which opened to erring humanity the road leading 
to the home of an invisible being? How did it begin? 
How end? What an awful heart-agony, not to know 
how to pray,—just to kneel so with a heart full of cry- 
ing aspirations, and dumb lips! How weak the voice 
of a sobbing sigh, how terribly far the starry heavens 
—who could hear there? 

Yet there is One who hears! 

And there is One who notes the unexpressed prayer 
of the silent suppliant, One who hears the unuttered 
words. 

Poor girl! She did not imagine that this feeling, this 
exaltation, was prayer—not the words, not the sermon, 
not addresses, not the amens. He who sees into hearts 
—reads from hearts, does not estimate the elegance of 
words. 

In the same hour that the suffering girl knelt thus 
dumbly before the Lord of all happiness, that man 
whom she had worshipped in her heart so long, whom 
she must worship forever, was sitting just as sleep- 
lessly beside his writing-table, separated from her only 
by two walls, and was thinking and writing about her, 
and often wiped his eyes that filled betimes with tears. 

He was writing to his mother about his engagement. 

About the poor gypsy girl. 


* *K * * * 


In the dim light of the beautiful starry night twelve 
horsemen were following in each others’ tracks among 
the reeds of the morass. 

Kandur was leading them. 

Each man had a gun on his shoulder, a pistol in his 
girdle. 

Along the winding road the mare Farao, treading 
lightly, led them: she too seemed to hasten, and some- 
times broke through the reeds, making a short cut, as if 
she too were goaded on by some thirst for vengeance. 

Among the willows, wills-o’-the-wisps were dancing. 


362 Debts of Honor 


They surrounded the horsemen, and followed their 
movements. Kandur smote at them with his lash. 

“On the return journey we shall be two more!” he 
muttered between his teeth. 

When they reached the lair there was merely a black 
stubbled ground left where the hay-rick stood before. 

In all directions shapeless burnt masses lay about. 

These were the ruins of the highwaymen’s palace. 

And the tears flow from their eyes, as they see their 
haunt thus destroyed. 

All twelve had reached the burnt dwelling. 

“* See what the robbers have made of it,” said Kandur 
to his comrades. ‘‘ They have stolen all we had col- 
lected, the riches we were to take with us to another 
land, and then they have set the dwelling on fire. They 
came here in a boat: they found out the way to our 
palace. We shall now return the visit. Are you all 
here? ” 

“Yes,” muttered the comrades. “‘ We are all here.” 

“Dismount. Now for the punts.” 

The robbers dismounted. 

“No need to tether the horses, they cannot get away 
anywhere. One man may remain here to guard them. 
Who wishes to stay?” 

All were silent. 

“Some one must guard the horses, lest the wolves 
attack them while we are away.” 

To which an old robber answered: 

“ Then you should have brought a herd-boy with you, 
for we didn’t come here to guard horses.” 

“Very well, mate, I only wished to know whether 
anyone of us would like to remain behind. Whether 
anyone’s ‘ sandal-strap was unloosed.’ Does each one 
know his own business? Come up one by one, and let 
me tell each one his duty once more. Kanyod and 
Foszto.” * 

Two of the men stepped forward. 

“You two will guard the two doors of the servants’ 


* Pilferer. 





When the Nightingale Sings 363 


quarter when we arrive. Death to him who tries to 
escape by door or window.” 

“We know.” 

“Csutor * and Disznoés,t you will be in ambush be- 
fore the hunting-box, and anyone who attempts to come 
out to the rescue, must be killed.” 

“Very well.” 

“Bogracs! { You will occupy the street-door, and if 
any peasant dares to approach you must shoot him: you 
alone are sufficient to keep peasants off.” 

“ Quite sufficient!” said the robber with great self- 
reliance. 

“ Korvé§ and Pofok.§ You must take your stand 
opposite the first verandah, near the well, and if anyone 
wishes to escape by the first door, fire at him. But don’t 
waste powder.—You others, Vasgyurd,| Hentes,** 
Pidcza,f{t Agyaras,{t will come with me through the 
garden, and will stay behind in the bushes until I give 
the sign. If I whistle once, that’s for you. If I can get in 
quietly, by craft, without being obliged to fire a shot, 
that will be the best. I have planned the way. I think 
it will succeed. So three will come with me, one will 
remain in the doorway. Have the halters ready, to 
throw upon his neck, drag him to the ground and bind 
him. The black-bearded strong man must be dealt with 
suddenly, with the butt of your gun on his head, if not 
otherwise. But we must take the old man alive, for we 
shall make him confess.” 

“Just leave him to me,” said a fellow with a pox- 
pitted face, in a tone of entire confidence. 

“J shall be there too,’”’ continued Kandur: “ and if we 
cannot enter the castle stealthily, if some one should 
make a noise, if those within wake up, then the first 
whistle is for you four: two come with me to break 
open the garden door. Have you got the ‘ jimmies ’?” 

“Ves,” said a robber, displaying the crowbars. 


* Nightshade. + Swinish. t Kettle. 


Blub-cheeked. Bully. ** Butcher. 
a tt Leech. tt Wild-boar. 


364 Debts of Honor 


“ Pidcza, and Agyaras, your business is to answer 
any fire of people from the windows.—lf I whistle twice, 
that means that something’s up, then you must run from 
all sides to help me. If I cannot break open the door, or 
if those robbers defend themselves well, set the roof on 
fire over their heads and give them a dose of singeing. 
That will do just as well. Don’t forget the tarred hay.” 

“Haha! The gentlemen will be warm.” 

“Well Pofok, perhaps you’re cold? You'll soon get 
warm. Hither with the canteen. Let’s drink a little 
Dutch courage first. Begin. Hentes. A long draught 
of brandy is, you know, good before a feast.” 

The tin went round and returned to Kandur almost 
empty. 

“Look, I have hardly left you any,” said the last 
drinker in a tone of apologetic modesty, 

“To-day I don’t drink brandy. The private must 
drink that he may be blind when he receives orders, but 
the general must not drink, that he may see to give 
orders. I shall drink something else when it is all over. 
Now look to the masking.” 

They understood what that meant. 

Each one took off his sheepskin jacket, reversed it 
and put it on again. Then dipping their hands in the 
strewn ashes, they blackened their faces, making them- 
selves unrecognizable. 

Only Kandur did not mask himself. 

“Let them recognize me. And anyone who does not 
recognize me, shall learn from my own lips, ‘ I am Kan- 
dur, the mad Kandur, who will drink thy blood, and tear 
out thy entrails. Know who Iam!’ How I shall look 
into their eyes! How I shall gnash upon them with my 
teeth, when they are bound. How tenderly I shall say to 
the young gentleman: ‘ Well, my boy, my gypsy child, 
were you in the garden? Did you see a wolf? Were 
you afraid of it? Shoo! Shoo!’ ”* 

Farao was impatiently pawing the scorched grass. 

“You too are looking for what is no more, Farao,” 


* A favorite child-verse in Hungary. 


When the Nightingale Sings 365 


the robber said, patting his horse’s neck. ‘‘ Don’t 
grieve. To-morrow you shall stand up to your knees 
in provender, and then you shall carry your master on 
your back. Don’t grieve, Farao.” 

The robbers had completed their disguises. 

“Now take up the boats.” 

Hidden among the reeds lay two skiffs, light affairs, 
each cut out of a piece of tree trunk: just such as would 
hold two men, and such as two men could carry on their 
shoulders over dry ground. 

The robber-band put the skiffs into the water and 
started one after the other on their way ; they went down 
until they reached the stream leading to the great dyke, 
by which they could punt down to the park of Lanka- 
domb, just where the shooting-box was. 

It was about midnight when they reached it. 

On the right of Lankadomb the dogs were baying 
restlessly, but the hounds of the castle watchman did not 
answer them. They were sleeping. Some vagrant 
gypsy woman had fed them well that evening on 
poisoned swine-flesh. 

The robbers reached the castle courtyard noiselessly, 
unnoticed, and each one at once took the place allotted 
to him, as Kandur had directed. 

The silence of deep sleep reigned in the house. 

When everyone was in his place, Kandur crept on his 
stomach among the bushes, which formed a grove under 
Czipra’s window that looked on to the garden, and put- 
ting an acacia leaf into his mouth, began to imitate the 
song of the nightingale. 

It was an artistic masterpiece which the wild son of 
the plains had, with the aid of a leaf, stolen from the 
mouth of the sweetest of song-birds. 

All those fairy warblings, those plaintive challenging 
tones, those enchanting trills, which no one has ever 
written down, he could imitate so faithfully, so natur- 
ally, that he deceived even his lurking comrades. 

“Cursed bird,” they muttered, “ it too has turned to 
whistling.” 

* * * * * 


366 Debts of Honor 


Czipra was sleeping peacefully. 

That invisible hand, which she had sought, had closed 
her eyes and sent sweet dreams to her heart. Perhaps, 
had she been able to sleep that sleep through undis- 
turbed, she would have awakened to a happy day. 

The nightingale was warbling under her window. 

The nightingale! The song-bird of love! Why was 
it entrusted with singing at night when every other bird 
is sitting on its nest, and hiding its head under its wing. 
Who had sent it, saying, “ Rise and announce that love 
is always waking?” 

Who had entrusted it to awake the sleepers ? 

Why, even the popular song says: 


** Sleep is better far than love 
For sleep is tranquillity; 
Love is anguish of the heart.”’ 


Fly away, bird of song! 

Czipra tried to sleep again. The bird’s song did not 
allow her. 

She rose, leaned upon her elbows and continued to 
listen. i 

And there came back to her mind that old gypsy 
woman’s enchantment,—the enchantment of love. 

“At midnight—the nightingale. . . . barefooted— 
. .. plant it in a flower-pot. . . before it droops, thy 
lover will return, and will never leave thee.” 

Ah! who would walk in the open at night? 

The nightingale continued : 

“Go out bare-footed and tear down the branch.” 

No, no. How ridiculous it would be! If somebody 
should see her, and tell others, they would laugh at her 
for her pains. 

The nightingale began its song anew. 

Malicious bird, that will not allow sleep! 

Yet how easy it would be to try: a little branch in a 
flower-pot. Who could know what it was? A girl’s 
innocent jest, with which she does harm to no one. 
Love’s childish enchantment. 

It would be easy to attempt it. 


When the Nightingale Sings 367 


And if it were true? If there were something in it? 
How often people say, “ this or that woman has given 
her husband something to make him love her so truly, 
and not even see her faults?” If it were true? 

How often people wondered, how two people could 
love each other? With what did they enchant each 
other? If it were true? 

Suppose there were spirits that could be captured 
with a talisman, which would do all one bade them? 

Czipra involuntarily shuddered: she did not know 
why, but her whole body trembled and shivered. 

“No, not so,” she said to herself. ‘If he does not 
give heart for heart,——mine must not deceive him. If 
he cannot love me because i deserve it, he must not love 
me for my spells. If he does not love, he must not de- 
spise me. Away, bird of song, I do not want thee.” 

Then she drew the coverlet over her head and turned 
to the wall. But sleep did not return again: the trem- 
bling did not pass: and the singing bird in the bushes 
did not hold his peace. 

It had come right under the window; it sang, “ Come, 
come.” 

Sometimes it seemed as if the song of the nightingale 
contained the words “ Czipra, Czipra, Czipra!”’ 

The warm mist of passion swept away the maiden’s 
reason. 

Her heart beat so, it almost burst her bosom, and her 
every limb trembled. 

She was no longer mistress of her mind. 

She left her bed, and therewith left that magic circle 
which the inspiration of the Lord forms around those 
who fly to Him for protection, and which guards them 
so well from all apparitions of the lower world. 

“Go bare-footed! ” 

Why it was only a few steps from the door to the 
bushes. 

Who could see her? What could happen in so short 
a time? 

It was merely the satisfaction of an innocent desire. 

It was no deed of darkness. 


368 Debts of Honor 


Every nerve was trembling. 

She was merely going to break a little branch, and 
yet she felt as if she was about to commit the most 
heinous crime, for which she needed the shield of a 
sleepless night. 

She opened the door very quietly so that it should not 
creak. 

Lorand was sleeping in the room vis-a-vis: perhaps 
he might hear something. 

She darted with bare feet before Lorand’s door, she 
carefully undid the bolt of the door leading into the 
garden and turned the key with such precaution that it 
did not make a sound. 

Noiselessly she opened the door and peered out. 

It was a quiet night of reveries: the stars, as is their 
wont when seen through falling dew, were changing 
their colors, flashing green and red. 

The nightingale was now cooing in the bushes, as it 
does when it has found its mate. 

Czipra looked around her. It was a deep slumbering 
night: no one could see her now. 

Yet she drew her linen garment closer round her, and 
was ashamed to show her bare feet to the starry night. 

Ah! it would last only a minute. 

The grass was warm and soft, wet with dew as far as 
the bushes: no sharp pebble would hurt her feet, no 
cracking stick betray her footsteps. 

She stepped out into the open, and left the door ajar 
behind her. 

She trembled so, she feared she would fall, and 
looked around her: for all the world like someone bent 
on thieving. 

She crept quietly towards the bushes. 

The nightingale was warbling there in the thickest 
part. 

She must pierce farther in, must quietly put the 
leaves aside, to see on which branch the bird was sing- 
ing. 

She could not see. 

Again she listened: the warbling lured her further. 


When the Nightingale Sings 369 


It must be near to her: it was warbling there, per- 
haps she could grasp it with her hand. 

But as she bent the bough, a fierce figure sprang up 
before her and grasped the hand she had stretched out. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 
THE NIGHT-STRUGGLE 


Tue dark figure, which seized’ Czipra’s hand so 
suddenly, stared with a blood-thirsty grin into his vic- 
tim’s face, whose every limb shuddered with terror at 
her assailant. 

“What do you want?” panted the girl in a choking, 
scarcely audible voice. 

“What do I want?” he hissed in answer. “I want 
to cut your gander’s throat, you goose! Do you want 
a nightingale?” 

Then he whistled a shrill whistle. 

His mates leaped out suddenly from their ambush at 
the sound of the whistle. 

At that moment Czipra recovered her self control 
in sheer despair: she suddenly tore her hand from 
the robber’s grasp, and in three bounds, like a terrified 
deer, reached the threshold of the door she had left 
open. 

But the wolf had followed in her tracks and reached 
her at the door. The girl had no time to close it in 
his face. 

“Don’t whine!” hissed Kandur, seizing the girl’s 
arm with one hand, with the other attempting to close 
her mouth. 

But terror had made Czipra frantic: tearing down 
the robber’s hand from her mouth, she pushed him back 
from the door, and with shrill cries awoke the echoes of 
the night. 

“Lorand, help! Robbers 

“ Silence, you dog, or I'll stab you!” thundered the 
robber, pointing a knife at the girl’s breast. 

The knife did not frighten Czipra: as she struggled 


37° 


{?? 


The Night-Struggle ary 


unceasingly and desperately with the robber, she cried 
“Lorand! Lorand! Murder! Help!” 

“Damn you!” exclaimed the robber thrusting his 
knife into the maiden’s bosom. 

Czipra suddenly seized the knife with her two hands. 

At that moment Lorand appeared beside her. 

At the first cry he had rushed from his room and, 
unarmed, hastened to Czipra’s aid. 

The girl was still struggling with the robber, holding 
him back, by sheer force, from entering the door. 

Lorand sprang towards her, and dealt the intruder 
such a blow with his fist in the face, that two of his 
teeth were broken. 

Two shots rang out, followed by a heavy fall and a 
cry of cursing. 

Topandy had fired from the window and one of the 
four robbers fell on his face mortally wounded, while an- 
other, badly hit, floundered and collapsed near the 
corridor. 

The two shots, the noise behind his back, and the 
unexpected blow confused Kandur; he retreated from 
the door, leaving his knife in Czipra’s hand. 

Lorand quickly utilized this opportunity to close the 
door, fasten the chain, and draw the bolt. 

The next moment the robbers’ vehement attack could 
be heard, as they fell upon the door with crowbars. 

“Come, let us get away,” said Lorand, taking Czi- 
pra’s hand. 

The girl faintly answered. 

“Oh! I cannot walk. I am fainting.” 

“ Are you wounded?” asked Lorand, alarmed. It 
was dark, he could not see. 

The girl fell against the wall. 

Lorand at once took her in his arms and carried her 
into his room. 

The lamp was still burning: he had just finished his 
letters. 

He laid the wounded girl upon his bed. 

He was terrified to see her covered with blood. 

“ Are you badly wounded?” 


972 Debts of Honor 


“Oh, no,” said the girl: “ see, the knife only went in 
so deep.” 

And she displayed the robber’s knife, showing on the 
blade how far it had penetrated. 

Lorand clasped his hands in despair. 

“ Here is a kerchief, press it on the wound to prevent 
the blood flowing.” 

“Go, go!” panted the girl. “ Look after your own 
safety. They want to kill you. They want to murder 

ou.” 

“Aha! let the wretches come! I shall face them 
without running!” said Lorand, whose only care was 
for Czipra: he quickly tried to stem the flow of blood 
from the wound in the girl’s breast with a handkerchief. 
“Lie quiet. Put your head here. Here, here, not so 
high. Is it very painful?” 

On the girl’s neck was a chain made of hair: this was 
in the way, so he wished to tear it off. 

“ No, no, don’t touch it,” panted the girl, “ that must 
remain there as long as I live. Go, get a weapon, and 
defend yourself.” 

The blows of the crowbars redoubled in force, and 
the bullets that broke through the closed windows dis- 
lodged the plaster from the walls; shot followed shot. 

Lorand had no other care than to see if the wounded 
girl’s pillows were well arranged. 

“Lorand,” said the girl breathlessly. ‘‘ Leave me. 
They are numerous. Escape. Put the lamp out, and 
when everything is dark—then leave me alone.” 

Certainly it would be good to extinguish the lamp, 
because the robbers were aiming into that room on ac- 
count of it. 

“Lorand! Where are you? Lorand,” Topandy’s 
voice sounded in the corridor. 

At that sound Lorand began to realize the danger 
that threatened the whole household. 

“Come and take your gun!”’ said the old man stand- 
ing in the doorway. His face was just as contemptuous 
as ever. There was not the least trace of excitement, 
fright or anger upon it. 


The Night-Struggle 373 


Lorand rose from his kneeling posture beside the bed. 

“Don’t waste time putting your boots on!” bawled 
the old fellow. “‘ Our guests are come. We must meet 
them. Where is Czipra? She can load our weapons 
while we fire.” 

‘“Czipra cannot, for she is wounded.” 

Topandy then discovered for the first time that 
Czipra was lying there. 

“A shot?” he asked of Lorand. 

“ A knife thrust.” 

“Only a knife thrust? That will heal. Czipra can 
stand that, can’t you, my child? We'll soon repay the 
wretches. Remain here, Czipra, quietly, and don’t 
move. We two will manage it. Bring your weapon 
and ammunition, Lorand. Bring the lamp out into the 
corridor. Here they can spy directly upon us. Luckily 
the brigands are not used to handle guns; they only 
waste powder.” 

“ But can we leave Czipra here alone?” asked Lor- 
and anxiously. 

Czipra clasped her hands and looked at him. 

“Go,” she panted. “ Go away: if you don’t I shall 
get up from here and look out for myself.” 

“Don’t be afraid. They cannot come here,” said 
Topandy ; then, lifting the lamp from the table himself, 
and taking Lorand’s hand, he drew him out from the 
room. 

In the corridor they halted to decide on a plan of 
action. 

“The villains are still numerous,” said Topandy: 
“yet I’ve accounted for two of them already. I have 
been round the rooms, and see that every exit is barred. 
They cannot enter, for the doors have been made just for 
such people, and the windows are protected by bolts 
and shutters. I have eight charges myself: even if they 
break in, before anyone can come this far, there will 
be no one left.—But something else may happen. If 
the wretches see we are defending ourselves well they 
will set the house on fire over us and so compel us to 
rush into the open. Then the advantage is theirs. So 


374 Debts of Honor 


your business is to take a double-barrelled gun’ and 
ascend to the roof. My butler and the cook have hid- 
den themselves away and I cannot entice them out: if 
they were here I should send one of them with you.” 

The robbers were beating the door angrily with their 
crowbars. 

“Tn a moment!” exclaimed Topandy jokingly.— 
“The rogues seem to be impatient.” 

“ And what shall I do on the roof?” asked Lorand. 

“ Wait patiently! I shall tell you in good time. No 
Turk is chasing youu—You go up and make your exit 
upon the roof by means of the attic window: then you 
crawl round on all fours along the gutter, without try- 
ing to shoot: leave them to pound upon all four 
doors. I shall join in the serenade, when necessary. 
But if you see they are beginning to strike lights and 
set straw on fire, you must put a stop to it. The gutter 
will defend you against their fire, they cannot see you, 
but when they start a blaze, you can accurately aim at 
each one. That is what I wanted to say.” 

“ Very well,” said Lorand, taking his cartridges from 
his gun-case. 

“ You'd better use shot instead of bullets,’’ remarked 
Topandy. “It’s easier to hit with shot when one is 
shooting in the dark, especially in the case of a large 
company. A little sang froid, my boy—you know: all 
of life is a play.” 

Lorand grasped the old man’s hand and hurried up 
to the garret. 

There in the dark he could only feel his way. Fora 
long time he wandered aimlessly about, striking 
matches to discover his whereabouts, until he came upon 
the attic window, which he raised with his head and so 
came out on the roof. 

Then he slid down softly on his stomach as far as the 
gutter. 

Below him the ball was in progress. The thunder 
of crowbars, the cracking of panels, the strong blows 
dealt to the tune of oaths; fresh oaths, thunder, pole- 
axe blows upon the wall. The robbers, unable to break 
in the doors, were trying to dislodce their posts. 


The Night-Struggle 375 


And in the distance no noise, no sign of help. The 
cowardly neighbors, shutting themselves in, were 
crouching in their own houses: nor could one blame 
unarmed men for not coming to the rescue. A gun isa 
terrible menace. 

Silence reigned in the servants’ hall. They too dared 
not come out. Courage is not for poor men. 

In the whole courtyard there were but two men who 
had stout hearts in their bosoms. 

The third courageous heart was that of a girl, who lay 
wounded. 

As he thought of this, Lorand became the victim of 
an excited passion. He felt his head swimming: he felt 
that he could not remain there, for sooner or later he 
must leap down. 

Leap down! 

An idea occurred to him. A difficult feat, but once 
thought out, it could be accomplished. 

He scrambled up the roof again: cut away one of 
those long dry ropes which in the garrets of many 
houses stretch from one rafter to another, tied to one 
end of it the weight of an old clock lying idle in the 
attic, and returned again to the roof. 

Not far from the house there stood an old sycamore 
tree: one of its spreading branches bent so near to the 
house that Lorand could certainly reach it by a cast of 
the rope. The lead-weighted rope, like a lasso, swung 
over and around the branch and fastened itself on it 
firmly. 

Lorand looped the other end of the rope round a 
rafter. 

Then, throwing his gun over his shoulder, and seiz- 
ing the rope with both his hands, he leaned his whole 
weight on it, to see if it would hold. 

When he was convinced that the rope would bear 
his weight, he began to clamber over from the roof to 
the sycamore tree, suspended in the air, on the slender 
rope. , 

Those below could not see him as they were under 
the verandah, nor could they notice the noise because 
of their own efforts: the little disturbance caused by 


376 Debts of Honor 


the shaking of a branch and the dropping of a figure 
from the tree was drowned by the shaking of doors, 
and the discharge of firearms. 

Lorand reached the ground without mishap. 

The sycamore tree stood at a corner of the castle, 
about thirty paces from the besieged door. 

Lorand could not see the robbers from this position: 
the northern side of the verandah was overgrown with 
creepers which covered the windows. 

He must get nearer to them. 

The bushes under Czipra’s window offered him a 
suitable position, being about ten paces from the door, 
which was plainly visible from them. 

Lorand cocked both triggers, and started alone with 
one gtin against the whole robber-band. 

When he reached the bushes he could see the rascals 
well. 

They were four in number. 

Two were trying the effect of the “ jimmy” on the 
heavy iron-bound door, while a third, the wounded one, 
though he could no longer stand, still took part in the 
siege, nothwithstanding his wounds. He put the barrel 
of his gun into the breaches made and fired over and 
over, so as to prevent the people inside from defending 
the door. 

Sometimes single shots answered him from within, 
but without hitting anybody or anything. 

The fourth robber, crowbar in hand, was striving 
to break down the door-supports. That was Vasgyuro. 

On the other side of the courtyard Lorand saw two 
armed figures keeping guard over the servants’ hall. 
It was six to one. 

And there were still more than that altogether. 

The door was very shaky already: the hinges were 
breaking. Lorand thought he heard his name called 
from within. 

‘ Now, all together,” thundered the robbers in self- 
encouragement, exerting all their united force on the 
crowbars. “ More force! More!” 

Lorand calmly raised his gun to his shoulder and 
fired twice among them in quick succession. 


The Night-Struggle 377 


No cry of pain followed the two shots—merely the 
thud of two heavy bodies. They were so thoroughly 
killed, they had no time to complain. 

The one in whose hands the crowbar remained 
dropped it behind him, as he darted away. 

The man who had been previously wounded began to 
cry for assistance. 

“Don’t shout,” exclaimed the fifth robber. “ You'll 
alarm the others.” 

Then putting two fingers in his mouth he whistled 
shrilly twice. 

Lorand saw that at this double whistle the two rob- 
bers running hastily came in his direction, while the din 
that arose on the farther side of the castle informed him 
of an attack from that side too. So he was between 
three fires. 

He did not lose his presence of mind. 

Before the new-comers arrived he had just time to 
load both barrels:—the bushes hid him from anyone 
who might even stand face to face, so that he could 
take no sure aim. 

Haste, care and courage! 

Lorand had often read stories of famous lion-hunters, 
but had been unable to believe them: unable to imagine 
howa lonely man in a wild waste, far from every human 
aid, defended only by a bush, could be courageous 
enough to cover the oldest male among a group of lions 
seeking their prey, and at a distance of ten paces fire 
into his heart. Not to hit his heart meant death to the 
hunter. But he is sure he will succeed, and sure, too, 
that the whole group will flee, once his victim has 
fallen. 

What presence of mind was required for that daring 
deed! What a strong heart, what a cool hand! 

Now in this awful moment Lorand knew that all 
this was possible. A man feels the extent of his man- 
liness, left all to himself in the midst of danger. 

He too was hunting, matched against the most dan- 
gerous of all beasts of prey—the beasts called “ men.” 

Two he had already laid low. He had found his 
mark as well as the lion-hunter had found his. 


378 Debts of Honor 


He heard steps of the animals he was hunting ap- 
proaching his ambuscade on two sides: and the leader 
of all stood there under cover, leaning against a pillar 
of the verandah, ready to spring, ten paces away. He 
had only two charges, with which he had to defend him- 
self against attack from three sides. 

Dangerous sport! 

One of the robbers who hurried from the servants’ 
hall disappeared among the trees in the garden, while 
the other remained behind. 

Lorand quietly aimed at the first: he had to aim low 
for fear of firing above him in the dark. 

It was well that he had followed his uncle’s advice 
to use shot instead of bullets. The shot lamed both the 
robber’s legs: he fell in his flight and stumbled among 
the bushes. 

The one who followed was alarmed, and standing in 
the distance fired in Lorand’s direction. 

Lorand, after his shot, immediately fell on his knees: 
and it was very lucky he did so, for in the next mo- 
ment Kandur discharged both his barrels from beside 
the pillar, and the aim was true, as Lorand discovered 
from the fact that the bullets dislodged leaves just above 
his head, that came fluttering down upon him. 

Then he turned to the third side. 

There had come from that direction at the call of the 
whistle Korvé, Pofék, and Bogracs, who had been 
guarding the street-door and the other exit from the 
castle. 

At the moment they turned into the garden their 
comrade Foszto, seeing Kany6o fall, stood still and fired 
his double-barrelled gun and pistols in the direction of 
Lorand’s hiding-place. It was quite natural they should 
think some aid had arrived from the shooting-box, for 
the bullets whistled just over their heads: so they began 
to fire back: Foszt6, alarmed, and not understanding 
this turn of affairs, fled. 

Old Kandur’s hoarse voice could not attract their at- 
tention amidst the random firing. He cried furiously: 
“Don’t shoot at one another, you asses!” 


The Night-Struggle 379 


They did not understand, perhaps did not hear at all 
in the confusion. 

Lorand hastened to enlighten them. 

Taking aim at the three villains, who were firing 
wildly into the night, he sent his second charge into 
their midst from the bushes, whence they least ex- 
pected it. 

This shot had a final effect. Perhaps several were 
wounded, one at any rate reeled badly, and the other 
two took to flight: then, finding their comrade could 
not keep up with them, they picked him up and dragged 
him along, disappearing in a moment in the thickest 
part of the park. 

Only the old lion remained behind, alone, old Kandur, 
the robber, burning with rage. He caught a glimpse 
of Lorand’s face by the flash of the second discharge, 
recognized in him the man he sought, whom he hated, 
whose blood he thirsted after: that foe, whom he re- 
membered with curses, whom he had promised to tear 
to pieces, to torture to death, who was here again in his 
way, and had with his unaided power broken up the 
whole opposing army, for all the world like the arch- 
angel himself. 

Kandur knew well he must not allow him time to 
load again. 

It was not a moment for shooting :—but for a pitched 
battle, hand to hand. 

Nor did the robber load his weapon: he rushec un- 
armed from his ambuscade as he saw Lorand standing 
before him, and threw himself in foaming passion upon 
the youth. 

Lorand saw that here, among the bushes, he had no 
further use for his gun, so he threw it away, and re- 
ceived his foe unarmed. 

Now it was face to face! 

As they clutched each other their eyes met. 

“ You devil!’ muttered Kandur, gnashing his teeth ; 
“you have stolen my gold, and my girl. Now I shall 
repay you.” 

Lorand now knew that the robber was Czipra’s father. 


380 Debts of Honor 


He had tried to murder his own daughter. 

This idea excited such rage in Lorand’s heart that 
he brought the robber to his knees with one wrench. 

But the other was soon on his feet again. 

“Oho! You are strong too? You gentlemen live 
well: you have strength. The ox is also strong, and yet 
the wolf pulls him down.” 

And with renewed passion he threw himself on Lor- 
and. 

But Lorand did not allow him to come close enough 
to grasp his wrist. He was a practised wrestler, and 
was able to keep his opponent an arm’s length away. 

“So you won’t let me come near you? You won't 
let me kiss you, eh? Won't let me bite out a little piece 
of your beautiful face? ” 

The wild creature stretched out his neck in his effort 
to get at Lorand. 

The struggle was desperate. Lorand was aided by the 
freshness of his youthful strength, his sang froid, and 
practised skill: the robber’s strength was redoubled by 
passion, his muscles were tough, and his attacks im- 
petuous, unexpected, and surprising like those of some 
savage beast. 

Neither uttered a sound. Lorand did not call for 
help, thinking his cries might bring the robbers back: 
and Kandur was afraid the house party might come out. 

Or perhaps neither thought of any such thing: each 
was occupied with the idea of overthrowing his op- 
ponent with his own hand. 

Kandur merely muttered through his teeth, though 
his passion did not deter his devilish humor. Lorand 
did not say a single word. 

The place was ill-adapted for such a struggle. 

Amid the hindering bushes they stumbled hither and 
thither ; they could not move freely, nor could they turn 
much, each one fearing that to turn would be fatal. 

“Come, come away,” muttered Kandur, dragging 
Lorand away from the bushes. “‘ Come onto the grass,” 

Lorand agreed. 

They passed out into the open. 


The Night-Struggle 381 


There the robber madly threw himself upon Lorand 
again. 

He tried no more to throw him, but to drag him after 
him, with all his might. 

Lorand did not understand what his foe wished. 

Always further, further :— 

Lorand twice threw him, but the robber clung to him 
and scrambled up again, dragging him always further 
away. 

Suddenly Lorand perceived what his opponent’s in- 
tention was. 

A few weeks previously he had told his uncle that 
a steward’s house was required: and Topandy had dug 
a lime-pit in the garden, where it would not be in the 
way. Only yesterday they had filled it to the brim with 
lime. 

The robber wished to drag Lorand with him into it. 

The young fellow planted his feet firmly and held 
back with all his might. 

Kandur’s eyes flashed with the stress of passion, 
when he saw in his opponent’s terrified face that he 
knew what his intention was. 

“ Well, how do you like the dance, young gentleman? 
This will be the wedding-dance now! The bridegroom 
with the bride—together into the lime-pit. Come, come 
with me! There in the slacked lime the skin will leave 
our bodies: I shall put on yours, you mine: how pretty 
we two shall be!” 

The robber laughed. 

Lorand gathered all his strength to resist the mad at- 
tempt. 

Kandur suddenly caught Lorand’s right arm with 
both of his, clung to him like a leech, and with a 
devilish smile said, “‘ Come now, come along! ”—and 
drew Lorand nearer, nearer to the edge of the pit. A 
couple of blows which Lorand dealt with his disengaged 
fist upon his skull were unnoticed: it was as hard as 
iron. 

They had reached the edge of the pit. 

Then Lorand suddenly put his left arm round the 


382 Debts of Honor 


robber’s waist, raised him in the air, then screwing him 
round his right arm, flung him over his head. 

This acrobatic feat required such an effort that he 
himself fell on his back—but it succeeded. 

The robber, feeling himself in the air, lost his head, 
and left hold of Lorand’s arm for a moment, with the 
intention of gripping his hair; in that moment he was 
thrown off and fell alone into the lime-pit. 

Lorand leaped up at once from the ground and, tired 
out, leaned against the trunk of a tree, searching for 
his opponent everywhere, and not finding him. 

A minute later from amidst the white lime-mud there 
rose an awful figure which clambered out on the oppo- 
site side of the pit, and with a yell of pain rushed away 
into the courtyard and out into the street. 

Lorand, exhausted and half dazed, listened to that 
beast-like howl gradually diminishing in the distance. 


CHAPTER XXIX 
THE SPIDER IN THE CORNER 


Tuat day about noon the old gypsy woman who told 
Czipra her fortune had shuffled into Sarvolgyi’s court- 
yard, and finding the master out on the terrace, thanked 
him that he did not set his dogs upon her—did not tear 
her to pieces. 

“T wish you a very good day, sir, and every blessing 
that is on earth or in Heaven.” 

Mistress Borcsa looked out from the kitchen. 

“Well, it’s just lucky you didn’t wish what is in 
hell! And what is in the water! Gypsy, don’t leave 
us a blessing without fish to go with it, for fish is 
wanted here twice a week.” 

“Don’t listen to Mistress Boris’ jokes.” 

“Good day, my daughter,” said the master gently. 

“Well he actually calls the ragged gypsy woman * my 
daughter,’”” grumbled the old housekeeper. ‘ Blood 
is thicker than water.” 

“Well, what have you brought, Marcsa?” 

“ Csicsa sent to say he will come with his twelve 
musicians this evening: he begs you to pay him in ad- 
vance as the musicians must hire a conveyance—then,” 
she continued, dropping her voice to a tone of jesting 
flattery,—‘‘ a little suckling pig for supper, if possible.” 

“Very well, Marcsa,”’ said SarvSlgyi, with polite 
gentility. ‘‘ Everything shall be in order. Come here 
towards evening. You shall get payment and sucking 
pig too.” 

Yet this overflowing magnanimity was not at all in 
conformity with the well-established habits of the de- 
volee. Close-fisted niggardliness displayed itself in his 


383 


384 Debts of Honor 


every feature and warred against this unnatural out- 
break. 

The gypsy woman kissed his hand and thanked him. 
But Mistress Boris saw the moment had arrived for a 
ministerial process against this abuse of royal preroga- 
tive; so she came out from the kitchen, a pan in one 
hand, a cooking-spoon in the other. 

She began her invective with the following Magyar 
“quousque tandem!” 

“The devil take your insatiable stomachs! When 
were they ever full? When did I ever hear you say 
“I’ve eaten well, I’m satisfied!’ I don’t know what has 
come over the master, that, ever since he became a 
married man, he has nothing better to do with his in- 
come than to stuff gypsies with it! ” 

“Don’t listen to her, Marcsa,” said the pious man 
softly, “that’s a way she has. Come this evening, and 
you shall have your sucking pig.” 

“Sucking pig!’ exclaimed Mistress Boris. “I 
should like to know where they’ll find a sucking pig 
hereabouts. As if all those the two sows had littered 
were not already devoured!” 

“ There is one left,” said Sarvolgyi coolly, “ one that 
is continually in the way all over the place.” 

“Yes, but that one I shall not give,” protested Mis- 
tress Boris. “I shan’t give it up for all the gypsies in 
the world. My little tame sucking pig which I brought 
up on milk and breadcrumbs. They shan’t touch that. 
I won’t give up that!” 

“Tt is enough if I give it,” said Sarvélgyi, harshly. 

“What, you will make a present of it? Didn’t you 
present me with it in its young days, when it was the 
size of a-fist? And now you want to take it back?” 

“Don’t make a noise. I'll give you two of the same 
size in place of it.” 

“T don’t want any larger one, or any other one: I am 
no trader. I want my own sucking pig; I won’t give it 
up for a whole herd,—the little one I brought up myself 
on milk and bread-crumbs! It is so accustomed to me 
now that it always answers my call, and pulls at my 


The Spider in the Corner 385 


apron: it plays with me. As clever, as a child, for all 
the world as if it were no pig at all, but a human being. 

Mistress Borcsa burst into tears. She always had 
her pet animals, after the fashion of old servants, who, 
being on good terms with nobody in the world, tame 
some hen or other animal set aside for eating pur- 
poses, and defend its life cleverly and craftily; not 
allowing it to be killed; until finally the merciless 
master passes the sentence that the favorite too must 
be killed. How they weep then! The poor, old maid- 
servants cannot touch a morsel of it. 

“ Stop whining, Borcsa!” roared Sarvolgyi, frown- 
ing. ‘“ You will do what I order. The pig must be 
caught and given to Marcsa.” 

The pig, unsuspicious of danger, was wandering 
about in the courtyard. 

‘“ Well, J shall not catch it,” whimpered Mistress 
Boris. 

“* Marcsa’ll do that.” 

The gypsy woman did not wait to be told a second 
time : but, at once taking a basket off her arms, squatted 
down and began to shake the basket, uttering some such 
enticing words as “ Pocza, poczo, net, net!” 

Nor was Mistress Borcsa idle: as soon as she re- 
marked this device, she commenced the counteract- 
ing spell. ‘Shoo! Shoo!”—and with her pan and 
cooking-spoon she tried to frighten her protégé away 
from the vicinity of the castle, despite the stamping pro- 
tests of Sarvélgyi, who saw open rebellion in this dis- 
regard for his commands. 

Then the two old women commenced to drive the pig 
up and down the yard, the one enticing, the other 
“ shooing,” and creating a delightful uproar. 

But, such is the ingratitude of adopted pigs! The 
foolish animal, instead of listening to its benefactor’s 
words and flying for protection among the beds of 
spinach, greedily answered to the call of the charmer, 
and with ears upright trotted towards the basket to 
discover what might be in it. 

The gypsy woman caught its hind legs. 


386 Debw of Honor 


Mistress Borcsa screamed, Marcsa grunted, and the 
pig squealed loudest of all. 

“ Kill it at once to stop its cries!” cried Sarvdlgyi. 
“What a horrible noise over a pig!” 

“Don’t kill it!) Don’t make it squeal while I am lis- 
tening,” exclaimed Borcsa in a terrified passion: then 
she ran back into the kitchen, and stopped her ears lest 
she should hear them killing her favorite pig. 

She came out again as soon as the squeals of her 
protégé had ceased, and with uncontrollable fury took 
up a position before Sarvolgyi. The gypsy woman 
smilingly pointed to the murdered innocent. 

Mistress Boresa then said in a panting rage to Sar- 
volgyi: 

“Miser who gives one day, and takes back—a curse 
upon such as you!”’ 

“Zounds! good-for-nothing!”’ bawled the righteous 
fellow. “ How dare you say such a thing to me? ” 

“ From to-day I am no longer your servant,” said the 
old woman, trembling with passion. “ Here is the cook- 
ing-spoon, here the pan: cook your own dinner, for your 
wife knows less about it than you do. My husband lives 
in the neighboring village: I left him in his young days 
because he beat me twice a day; now I shall go back to 
the honest fellow, even if he beat me thrice a day.” 

Mistress Borcsa was in reality not jesting, and to 
prove it she at once gathered up her bed, brought out 
her trunks, piled all her possessions onto a barrow, and 
wheeled them out without saying so much as “ good 
bye.” 

Sarvolgyi tried to prevent this wholesale rebellion 
forcibly by seizing Mistress Borcsa’s arm to hold her 
back. 

“You shall remain here: you cannot go away. You 
are engaged for a whole year. You will not get a 
kreutzer if you go away.” 

But Mistress Borcsa proved that she was in earnest, 
as she forcibly tore her arm from Sarvdlgyi’s grasp. 

“T don’t want your money,” she said, wheeling her 


The Spider in the Corner 387 


barrow further. “ What you wish to keep back from 
my salary may remain for the master’s—coffin-nails.” 

“What, you cursed witch!” exclaimed Sarvolgy 
“What did you dare to say to me?” 

Mistress Borcsa was already outside the gate. She 
thrust her head in again, and said: 

““T made a mistake. I ought to have said that the 
money you keep from me may remain—to buy a rope.” 

Sarvolgyi, enraged, ran to his room to fetch a stick, 
but before he came out with it, Mistress Borcsa was 
already wheeling her vehicle far away on the other side 
of the street, and it would not have been fitting for a 
gentleman to scamper after her before the eyes of the 
whole village, and to commence a combat of doubtful 
issue in the middle of the street with the irritated 
Amazon. 

The nearest village was not far from Lankadomb; 
yet before she reached it, Misties.. Boresa’s soul was 
brimming over with wrath. 

Every man would consider it beneath his dignity to 
submit tamely to such a dishonor. 

As she reached the village of her birth, she made 
straight for the courtyard of her former husband’s 
house. 

Old Kélya recognized his wife as she came up trund- 
ling the squeaking barrow, and wondering thrust his 
head out at the kitchen door. 

“Ts that you, Boris?” 

“Tt is: you might see, if you had eyes.” 

“ You've come back?”’ 

Instead of replying Mistress Boris bawled to her 
husband. 

“ Take one end of this trunk and help me to drag it 
in. Take hold now. Do you think I came here to ad- 
mire your finely curled moustache? ” 

“Well, why else did you come, Boris?” said the old 
man very phlegmatically, without so much as taking 
his hand from behind his back. 

“You want to quarrel with me again, I see; well, 


388 Debts of Honor 


let’s be over with it quickly: take a stick and beat me, 
then let us talk sense.” 

At this Kélya took pity on his wife and helped her 
to drag the trunk in. 

“T am no longer such a quarreller, Boris,” he an- 
swered. “ Ever since I became a man with a responsi- 
ble position I have never annoyed anyone. | am a 
watchman.” 

“So much the better: if you are an official, I can at 
any rate tell you what trouble brought me here.” 

“So it was only trouble drove you here?” 

“ Certainly. They robbed and stole from me. They 
have taken away my yellow-flowered calico kerchief, 
a red ‘ Home-sweet-Home’ handkerchief, which I had 
intended for you, a silver-crossed string of beads, twelve 
dollars, ten gold pieces, twenty-two silver buttons, four 
pairs of silver buckles, and a scolloped-eared, pi-bald, 
eight-week-old pig. . . .” 

“ Whew!” exclaimed Kolya as he heard of so much 
loss. “ This is a pretty business. Well, who stole 
them?” 

“No one else than the cursed gypsy woman Marcsa, 
who lives here in this village.” 

“We shall call her to account as soon as she ap- 
pears.”’ 

“Naturally. She went there while I was weeding 
in the garden; she prowled about and stole.” 

s “Well [ll soon have her by the ears, only let her come 
ere... 

Not a word of the whole story of the theft was true: 
but Mistress Boris reasoned as follows: 

“You must come here first, gypsy woman, with that 
scolloped-eared pig: if they find it in your possession, 
they will put you in jail, and ask you what you did 
with the rest. Whether your innocence is proved or not, 
the pig-joint will in the meanwhile become uneatable, 
and won’t come into your stomachs. You may say you 
got it as a present,—no one will believe you, and the 
magistrate will not order such a gentleman as Sarvolgyi 
to come here and witness in your favor.” 


The Spider in the Corner 389 


Kolya allowed himself to be made a participant in his 
wife’s anger, and went at once to inform the servants 
of the magistrate, who was sitting in the village. 

Towards evening Kolya, in ambush at the end of the 
village, spied the gypsy woman as she came sauntering 
by Lankadomb, carrying on her arm a large basket as if 
it were some great weight. 

Kolya said nothing to her, he merely let her pass be- 
fore him, and followed her on the other side of the 
street, until she reached the middle of the market-place, 
where many loiterers sauntered and listened to the tales 
of his wife. 

“ Halt, Marcsa! ” cried Kolya, standing in the gypsy 
woman’s way. 

“What do you want?” she asked, shrugging her 
shoulders. 

“What have you in your basket?” 

“What should I have? A pig which you shall not 
taste, is in it.” 

“Of course. Has not the pig scolloped ears?” 

“‘ Suppose it has?” 

“You speak lightly. Let me look at the pig.” 

“ Well look—then go blind. Have you never seen 
such an animal? Have a look at it.” 

The gypsy woman uncovered the basket, in which 
lay the unhappy victim, reposing on its stomach, its 
scolloped ears still standing up straight. 

A crowd began to collect round the disputants. 

Mistress Boris burst in among them. 

“ There it is! That was my pig!” 

“ As much as the shadow of the Turkish Sultan’s 
horse was yours. Off with you: don’t look at it so 
hard, else you will be bewitched by it and your child 
will be like it.” 

The loiterers began to laugh at that; they were al- 
ways ready to laugh at any rough jest. 

The laughter enraged Kolya: he seized the much-dis- 
cussed pig’s hind legs and before the gypsy woman 
could prevent him, had torn it out of the basket. 

But the pig was heavier than such animals are wont 


390 Debts of Honor 


to be at that age, so that Kolya bumped the noble 
creature’s nose against the ground. 

As he did so a dollar rolled out of the pig’s 
mouth. 

‘“‘ Oho !—tthe thalers are here too!” 

At these words the gypsy woman took up her basket 
and began to run away. When they seized her, she 
scratched and bit, and tried her best to escape, till finally 
they bound her hands behind her. 

Kolya was beside himself with astonishment. 

There was quite a heap of silver money sewn into that 
pig. Loads of silver. 

Mistress Boris herself did not understand it. 

This must be reported to the magistrate. 

Kolya, accompanied by a large crowd, conducted 
Marcsa to the magistrate’s house, where the clerks, 
pending that official’s arrival, took the accused in 
charge, and shut her up in a dark cell, which had only 
one narrow window looking out on the henyard. 

When the magistrate returned towards midnight, 
only the vacant cell was there without the gypsy 
woman. She had been able to creep out through the 
narrow opening, and had gone off. 

The magistrate, when he saw the “ corpus delicti,” 
was himself of the opinion that the pig was in reality 
Mistress Boris’s property, while the money that had 
been hidden in its inside must have come also from 
Sarvolgyi’s house. There might be some great robbery 
in progress yonder. He immediately gave orders for 
three mounted constables to start off for Lankadomb; 
he ordered a carriage for himself, and a few minutes 
after the departure of the constables, was on his way 
in their tracks with his solicitor and servant. 


€ 


* * * * * 


The spider was already sitting in its web. 

As night fell, Sarvolgyi hastened the ladies off to 
bed, for they were going to leave for Pest and so had 
to wake early. 


The Spider in the Corner 391 


When all was quiet in the house, he himself went 
round the yard and locked the doors: then he closed 
the door of each room separately. 

Finally he piled his arms on his table—two guns, two 
pistols, and a hunting-knife. 

He was loath to believe the old gossip. Suppose 
Kandur should, in the course of his feast of blood be 
whetted for more slaughter, and wish to slice up be- 
trayer after betrayed? 

In the presence of twelve robbers, he could not even 
trust an ally. 

The night watchman had already called “‘ Eleven.” 

Sarvélgyi was sitting beside his window. 

The windows were protected on the street side by 
iron shutters, with a round slit in the middle, through 
which one could look out into the street. 

Sarvélgyi opened the casements in order to hear 
better, and awaited the events to which the night should 
give birth. 

It was a still warm evening towards the end of 
spring. 

All nature seemed to sleep; no leaf moved in the 
warm night air: only at times could be heard a faint 
sound, as if wood and field had shuddered in their 
dreams, and a long-drawn sigh had rustled the tops 
of the poplars, dying away in the reed-forest. 

Then, suddenly, the hounds all along the village be- 
gan to bay and howl. 

The bark of a hound is generally a soothing sound; 
but when the vigilant house-guard has an uneasy feel- 
ing, and changes his bark to a long whining howl, it 
inspires disquietude and anxiety. 

Only the spider in the web rejoiced at the sound 
of danger! They were coming! 

The hounds’ uproar lasted long: but finally it too 
ceased; and there followed the dreamy, quiet night, 
undisturbed by even a breath of wind. 

Only the nightingales sang, those sweet fanciful 
songsters of the night, far and near in the garden 
bushes. 


392 Debts of Honor 


Sarvolgyi listened long—but not to the nightingale’s 
song. What next would happen? 

Then the stillness of the night was broken by an aw- 
ful cry as when a girl in the depth of night meets her 
enemy face to face. 

A minute later again that cry—still more horrible, 
more anguished. As if a knife had been thrust into 
the maiden’s breast. 

Then two shots resounded :—and a volley of oaths. 

All these midnight sounds came from above To- 
pandy’s castle. 

Then a sound of heavy firing, varied by noisy oaths. 
The spider in the web started. The web had been 
disturbed. The stealthy attack had not succeeded. 

Yet they were many—they could surely overcome 
two. The peasants did not dare to aid where bullets 
whistled. 

Then the firing died away: other sounds were heard: 
blows of crowbars on the heavy door: the thunder 
of the pole-axe on the stone wall, here and there a sin- 
gle shot, the flash of which could not be seen in the 
night. Certainly they were firing in at doors and out 
through windows. That was why no fiash could be seen. 

But how long it lasted! A whole eternity before 
they could deal with those two men! From the roots 
of Sarvolgyi’s sparse hair hot beads of sweat were 
dripping down. 

Not in yet? Why cannot they break in the door? 

Suddenly the light of two brilliant flashes illuminated 
the night for a moment: then two deafening reports, 
that could be produced only by a weapon of heavy 
calibre. So easy to pick out the dull thunder roar from 
those other crackling splutterings that followed at once. 

What was that? Could they be fighting in the open? 
Could they have come out into the courtyard? Could 
they have received aid from some unexpected quarter? 

The crack of fire-arms lasted a few minutes longer. 
Twice again could be heard that particular roar, and 
then all was quiet again. 

Were they done for already? 


The Spider in the Corner 393 


For a long time no sound, far or near. 

Sarvolgyi looked and listened in restless impatience. 
He wished to pierce the night with his eyes, he wished 
to hear voices through this numbing stillness. He put 
his ear to the opening in the iron shutter. 

Some one knocked at the shutter from without. 

Startled, he looked out. 

The old gypsy woman was there: creeping along 
beside the wall she had come this far unnoticed. 

“ Sarvolgyi,” said the woman in a loud whisper: 
“Sarvolgyi, do you hear? They have seized the 
money: the magistrate has it. Take care!” 

Then she disappeared as noiselessly as she had come. 

In a moment the sweat on Sarvodlgyi’s body turned 
to ice. His teeth chattered from fever. 

What the gypsy woman had said was, for him, the 
terror of death. 

The most evident proof was in the hands of the law: 
before the awful deed had been accomplished, the hand 
that directed it had been betrayed. 

And perhaps the terrible butchery was now in its 
last stage. They were torturing the victims! Pouring 
upon them the hellish vengeance of wounded wild 
beasts! Tearing them limb from limb! Looking with 
their hands that dripped with blood among the docu- 
ments for the letter with five seals. 

Already all was betrayed! Fever shook his every 
limb. Why that great stillness outside? What secret 
could this monstrous night hide that it kept such silence 
as this? 

Suddenly the silence was broken by a wild creature’s 
howl. 

No it was no animal. Only a man could how! so, 
when agony had changed him to a mad beast, who in 
the fury of his pain had forgotten human voice. 

The noise sounded first in the distance, beyond the 
garden of the castle, but presently approached, and a 
figure of horror ran howling down the street. 

A figure of horror indeed! 

A man, white from head to foot. 


394 Debts of Honor 


All his clothes, every finger of his hand, was white: 
every hair of his head, his beard, moustache, his whole 
face was white, glistening, shining white, and as he ran 
he left white footsteps behind him. 

Was it a spirit? 

The horror rushed up to Sarvdlgyi’s door, rattling 
the latch and in a voice of raving anger began to howl 
as he shook the door. 

“Let me in! Let me in! I am dying!” 

Sarvolgyi’s face, in his agony of terror, became like 
that of a damned soul. 

That was Kandur’s voice! That was Kandur’s fig- 
ure. But so white! 

Perhaps the naked soul of one on the way to hell? 

The horrible figure thundered continuously at the 
door and cried: 

“Let me in! Give me to drink! I am burning! 
Bathe me in oil! Help me to undress! I am dying! I 
am in hell! Help! Drag me out of it!” 

All through the street they could hear his cries. 

Then the damned soul began to curse, and beat the 
door with his fist, because they would not open to him. 

“A plague upon you, cursed accomplice. You shut 
me out and won’t let me in? Thrust me into the tanpit 
of hell and leave me there? My skin is peeling off! I 
am going blind! An ulcer upon your soul! ” 

The writhing figure tore off his clothes, which burned 
his limbs like a shirt of Nessus, and while so doing the 
hidden silver coins he had received from Sarvélgyi fell 
to the ground. 

“ Devil take you, money and all!” he shouted, dash- 
ing the coins against the door. “ Here’s your cursed 
money! Pick it up!” 

Then he staggered on, leaning against the railing and 
howling in pain: 

“Help! Help! A fortune for a glass of water! 
Only let me live until I can drag that fellow with me! 
Help, man, help!” 

A deathly numbness possessed Sarvélgyi. If that 
figure of horror were no “ spirit,”’ he must hasten to 


The Spider in the Corner 395 


make him so. He would betray all. That was the 
greatest danger. He must not live. 

He could not see him from the window. Perhaps if 
he opened the shutters, he could fire at him. He was a 
highwayman: who could call Sarvélgyi to account for 
shooting him? He had done it in self-defence. 

If only his hands would not tremble so! It was im- 
possible to hit him with a pistol except by placing the 
barrel to his forehead. 

Should he go out to him? 

Who would dare to go out to meet that demon face 
to face? Could the spider leave its web? 

While he hesitated, while he struggled to measure 
the distance from door to window and back, a new 
sound was heard in the street :—three horsemen came 
trotting up from the end of the village, and in them Sar- 
volgyi recognized, from their uniforms, the country 
police. 

Then the bell began to ring, and the peasants came 
out of their doors, armed with pitchforks and clubs: 
noisy crowds collected. In their midst were one or two 
bound figures whom they drove forward with blows: 
they had seized the robbers. 

The battle was irremediably lost. The chief criminal 
saw the toils closing in on him but had no time to make 
his escape. 


CHAPTER XXX 
I BELIEVE... .! 


Day was dawning. 

Topandy had not left Czipra since she had been 
wounded. He sat alone beside her bed. 

Servants and domestics had other things to do now: 
they were standing before the magistrate, face to face 
with the captured robbers. The magisterial inquiry 
demanded the presence of them all. 

Topandy was alone with the wounded girl. 

“Where is Lorand?” whispered Czipra. 

“ He drove over to the neighboring village to bring 
a doctor for you.” 

“No harm has come to him?” 

“You might have heard his voice through the win- 
dow, when all was over. He could not come in, because 
the door was closed. His first care was to bring a sur- 
geon for you.” 

The girl sighed. 

“If he comes too late. . . 

“Don’t fret about that. Your wound is not fatal; 
only be calm.” 

“T know better,” said the girl in a flush of fever. 
“T feel that I shall not live.” 

“Don’t worry, Czipra, you will get better,” said To- 
pandy, taking the girl’s hand. 

And then the girl locked her five fingers in those of 
Topandy, so that they were clasped like two hands in 
prayer. 

“ Sir, I know I am standing on the brink of the grave. 
I have now grasped your hand. I have clasped it, as 
people at prayer are wont to clasp their hands. Can 
you let me go down to the grave without teaching me 


396 


39 


P Beheve’ 2441 397 


one prayer. This night the murderer’s knife has 
pierced my heart to liberate yours. Does not my heart 
deserve the accomplishment of its last wish? Does not 
that God, who this night has liberated us both, me from 
life, you from death, deserve our thanks?” 

Topandy was moved. He said: 

“ Repeat after me.” 

And he said to her the Lord’s Prayer. 

The girl devoutly and between gasps repeated it after 
him. 

How beautiful it is! What great words those 
are! 

First she repeated it after him, then again said it 
over, sentence by sentence, asking ‘ what does this or 
that phrase mean?” ‘* Why do we say ‘ our Father?’ 
What is meant by ‘ Thy Kingdom?’ Will he forgive us 
our trespasses, if we forgive them that trespass against 
us? Will he deliver us from every evil? What power 
there is in that “ Amen!’ ’’—Then a third time she re- 
peated it alone before Topandy, without a single omis- 
sion. 

“Now I feel easier,” she said, her face beaming with 
happiness. 

The atheist turned aside and wept. 

The shutters let in the rays of the sun through the 
holes the bullets had made. 

. “Is that sunset? ” whispered the girl. 

“No, my child, it is sunrise.” 

“T thought it was evening already.” 

Topandy opened one shutter that Czipra might see 
the morning light of the sun. 

Then he returned to the sick girl, whose face burned 
with fever. 

“Lorand will be here immediately,’ he assured her 
gently. 

“T shall soon be far away,” sighed the girl with 
burning lips. 

Tt seemed so long till Lorand returned! 

The girl asked no more questions about him: but she 
was alert at the opening of every door or rattling of 


398 Debis of Honor 


carriages in the street, and each time became utterly 
despondent, when it was not he after all. 

How late he was! 

Yet Lorand had come as quickly as four fleet-footed 
steeds could gallop. 

Fever made the girl’s imagination more irritable. 

‘If some misfortune should befall him on the way? 
If he should meet the defeated robbers? If he should 
be upset on one of the rickety bridges? ”’ 

Pictures of horror followed each other in quick suc- 
cession in her feverish brain. She trembled for Lorand. 

Then it occurred to her that he could defend himself 
against terrors. Why, he knew how to pray. 

She clasped her hands across her breast and closed 
her eyes. 

As she said “ Amen ”’ to herself she heard the rattling 
of wheels in the courtyard, and then the well-known 
steps approaching along the corridor. 

What a relief that was! 

She felt that her prayer had been heard. How happy 
are those who believe in it! 

The door opened and the youth she worshipped 
stepped in, hastening to her bed and taking her hand. 

“You see, I was lucky: I found him on the road. 
That is a good sign.” 

Czipra smiled. 

Her eyes seemed to ask him, “ Nothing has hap- 
pened to you?” 

The surgeon examined the wound, bandaged it and 
told the girl to be quiet, not to move or talk much. 

“Ts there any hope?” asked Lorand in a whisper. 

“ God and nature may help.” 

The doctor had to leave to look after the wounded 
robbers. Lorand and his uncle remained beside Czipra. 

Lorand sat on the side of her bed and held her hand 
in his. The doctor had brought some cooling draught 
for her, which he gave the sufferer himself. 

How Czipra blessed the knife that had given her that 
wound! 

She alone knew how far it had penetrated. 


I Believe ... } 399 


The others thought such a narrow little wound was 
not enough to cut a life in two. 

Topandy was writing a letter on Lorand’s writing- 
table: and when asked “to whom?” he said “ To the 
priest.” 

Yet he was not wont to correspond with such. 

Czipra thought this too was all on her account. 

Why, she had not yet been christened. 

What a mysterious house it was, the door of which 
was now to open before her! 

Perhaps a whole palace, in the brilliant rooms of 
which the eye was blinded, as it looked down them? 

Soon steps were heard again outside. Perhaps the 
clergyman was coming. 

She was mistaken. 

In the new-comer she recognized a figure she had 
seen long before—Mr. Buczkay, the lawyer. 

Despite the customary roundness of that official’s 
face, there were traces of pity on it, pity for the young 
girl, victim of so dreadful a crime. 
si He called Topandy aside and began to whisper to 

im. 

Czipra could not hear what they were saying: but a 
look which the two men cast in her direction, betrayed 
to her the subject of their discourse. 

The judges were here and were putting the law into 
force upon the guilty——They were examining into the 
events, from beginning to end.—They must know all.— 
They had taken the depositions of the others already: 
now it was her turn.—They would come with their 
documents, and ask her “ Where did you walk? Why 
did you leave your room at night? Why did you open 
the house-door? Whom were you looking for outside 
in the garden?” 

What could she answer to those terrible questions? 

Should she burden her conscience with lies, before 
the eyes of God whom she would call as a witness from 
Heaven, and to whom she would raise her supplicating 
hands for pity, when the day of reckoning came? 

Or should she confess all? 


400 Debts of Honor 


Should she tell how she had loved him: how mad 
she was: how she started in search of a charm, with 
which she wished to overcome the heart of her dar- 
ling? 

She could not confess that! Rather the last drop of 
blood from her heart, than that secret. 

Or should she maintain an obdurate silence? ‘That, 
however, would create suspicion that she, the robber’s 
daughter, had opened the door for her robber father, 
and had plotted with workers of wickedness. 

What a desperate situation ! 

And then again it occurred to her that she too could 
defend herself against terrors: she knew now how to 
pray. So she took refuge in the sanctuary of the Great 
Lord, and, embracing the pillars of his throne, prayed, 
and prayed, and prayed. 

Scarce a quarter of an hour after the lawyer’s de- 
parture, some one else came. 

It was Michael Daruszegi, the magistrate. 

The girl trembled as she saw him. The confessor 
had come! 

Topandy sprang up from his seat and went to meet 

im. 

Czipra plainly heard what he said in a subdued voice. 

“ The doctor has forbidden her to speak: in her pres- 
ent condition you cannot cross-question her.” 

Czipra breathed freely again. He was defending 
her! 

“In any case I can answer for her, for I was present 
from the very beginning,” said Lorand to the magis- 
trate. “ Czipra heard the noise in the garden, and was 
daring enough, as was her wont, to go out and see what 
was the matter. At the door she met the robber face 
to face: she barred his way, and immediately cried out 
for me: then she struggled with him until I came to 
her help.” 

How pleased Czipra was at that explanation, all the 
more because she saw by Lorand’s face that he really 
believed it. 

“T have no more questions to ask the young lady,” 


T. Belteve:... (ie | 401 


said Daruszegi. ‘“‘ This matter is really over in any 
case.” 

“Over?” asked Topandy astonished. 

“Yes, over: explained, judged, and executed.” 

“ce How? ” 

“The robber chief, Kandur, before he died in agony, 
made such serious and perfectly consistent confessions 
as, combined with other circumstances, compromised 
your neighbor in the greatest measure.” 

“Sarvolgyi?”’ inquired Topandy with glistening 
eyes. 

“Yes.—So far indeed that I was compelled to extend 
the magisterial inquiry to his person too. I started with 
my colleague to find him. We found the two ladies in a 
state of the greatest consternation. They came before 
us, and expressed their deep anxiety at not finding Sar- 
volgyi anywhere in the house: they had discovered his 
room open and unoccupied. His bedroom we did indeed 
find empty, his weapons were laid out on the table, the 
key of his money-chest was left in it, and the door of 
the room open.—What could have become of him ?— 
We wanted to enter the door of the dining-room oppo- 
site. It was locked. The ladies declared that room 
was generally locked. The key was inside in the lock. 
That room has two other doors, one opening on to the 
kitchen, one on to the verandah. We looked at them 
too. In both cases the key was inside, in the lock. Some 
one must be in the room! I called upon the person 
within, in the name of the law to open the door to us. 
No answer came. I repeated the command, but the door 
was not opened: so I was compelled to have it finally 
broken open by force; and when the sunlight burst 
through into the dark room, what horrible sight do 
you think met our startled gaze? The lord of the 
house was hanging there above the table in the place 
of the chandelier: the chair under his feet that he 
had kicked away proved that he had taken his own 
Lifes 27e5.7 

Topandy at these words raised his hands in ecstasy 
above his head. 


402 Debts of Honor 


“ There is a God of justice in Heaven! He has smit- 
ten him with his own hand.” 

Then he clasped his hands together with emotion and 
slipped towards the head of Czipra’s bed. 

‘Come, my child, say: ‘I believe in God ’—I shall 
say it first.” 

The doctor had not forbidden that. 

Czipra devoutly waited for the words of wonder. 

What a great, what a comforting world of thoughts. 

A God who is a Father, a mother who is a maiden. 
A God who will be man for man’s sake, and who suf- 
fered at man’s hands, who died and rose again promises 
true justice, forgiveness for sins, resurrection, life eter- 
nal! 

“What is that life eternal?” 

If only some one could have answered! 

The atheist was kneeling down beside the girl’s bed 
when the priest arrived. 

He did not rise, was not embarrassed at his presence. 

“See, reverend sir, here is a neophyte, waiting for 
the baptismal water: I have just taught her the 
“Credo. 

The girl gave him a look full of gratitude. What 
happiness glittered in those eyes of ecstasy! 

“Who will be the god-parents?”’ asked the clergy- 
man. . 

“One, the magistrate,—if he will be so kind: the 
other, I.” 

Czipra looked appealingly, first at Topandy, then at 
Lorand. 

Topandy understood the unspoken question. 

“ Lorand cannot be. Ina few minutes you shall know 
why.” 

The minister performed the ceremony with that brief- 
ness which consideration for a wounded person re- 
quired. 

When it was over, Topandy shook hands with the 
minister. 

‘If my hand has sinned at times against yours, I 
now ask your pardon.” 


J Believe; oi0.4 \! 403 


“The debt has been paid by that clasp of your hand,” 
said the priest. 

“ Your hand must now pronounce a blessing on us.” 

“ Willingly.” 

“IT do not ask it for myself: I await my punishment: 
I am going before my judge and shall not murmur 
against him. I want the blessing for those whom I love. 
This young fellow yesterday asked of me this maiden’s 
hand. They have long loved each other, and deserve 
eath other’s love:—give them the blessing of faith, 
father. Do you agree, Czipra?” 

The poor girl covered her burning face with her two 
hands, and, when Lorand stepped towards her and took 
her hand, began to sob violently. 

“Don’t you love me? Will you not be my 
wife ?” 

Czipra turned her head on one side. 

“Ah, you are merely jesting with me. You want to 
tease, to ridicule a wretched creature who is nothing 
but a gypsy girl.” 

Lorand drew the girl’s hand to his heart when she 
accused him of jesting with her. Something within 
told him the girl had a right to believe that, and the 
thought wrung his heart. 

“ How could you misunderstand me? Do you think 
T would play a jest upon you—and now?” 

Topandy interrupted kindly. 

“How could I jest with God now, when I am pre- 
paring to enter his presence?” 

“ How could I jest with your heart?” said Lorand. 

“ And with a dying girl,” panted Czipra. 

“No, no, you will not die, you will get well again, 
and we shall be happy.” 

“You say that now when IJ am dying,” said the girl 
with sad reproach. “ You tell me the whole beautiful 
world is thine, now, when of that world I shall have 
nothing but the clod of earth, which you will throw 
upon me.” 

“No, my child,” said Topandy, “ Lorand asked your 
hand of me yesterday evening, and was only awaiting 


404 Debts of Honor 


his mother’s approval to tell you yourself his feelings 
towards you.” 

A quick flash of joy darted over the girl’s face, and 
then it darkened again. 

“ Why, I know,” she said brushing aside her tangled 
curls from her face, “‘ I know your intentions are good. 
You are doing with me what people do with sick chil- 
dren. ‘Get well! We'll buy you beautiful clothes, 
golden toys, we'll take you to places of amusement, for 
journeys—we shall be good-humored—will never an- 
noy you:—only get well.’ You want to give the poor 
girl pleasure, to make her better. I thank you for that 
too.” 

“You will not believe me,” said Lorand, “but you 
will believe the minister’s word. See last night I wrote 
a letter to mother about you: it lies sealed on my writ- 
ing-table. Reverend sir, be so kind as to open and 
read it before her. She will believe you if you tell her 
we are not cajoling her.” 

The minister opened the letter, while Czipra, holding 
Lorand’s hand, listened with rapt attention to the words 
that were read: 


“My Dear MOTHER: 

“ After the many sorrows and pains I have contin- 
uously caused throughout my life to the tenderest of 
mothers’ hearts, to-day I can send you news of joy. 

“T am about to marry. 

“Tam taking to wife one who has loved me as a poor, 
nameless, homeless youth, for myself alone, and whom 
I love for her faithful heart, her soul pure as tried gold, 
still better than she loves me. 

“My darling has neither rank nor wealth: her par- 
ents were gypsies. 

“T shall not laud her to you in poetic phrases: these 
I do not understand. I can only feel, but not express 
my feelings. 

“No other letter of recommendation can be required 
of you, save that I love her. 


L-Believe,,.o ier 405 


“ Our love has hitherto only caused both of us pain: 
now I desire happiness for both of us. 

“ Your blessing will make the cup of this happiness 
full. 

“You are good. You love me, you rejoice in my joy. 

“You know me. You know what lessons life has 
taught me. 

“You know that Fate always ordained wisely and 
providentially for me. 

“No miracle is needed to make you, my mother, the 
best of mothers, who love me so, and are calm and 
peaceful in God, clasp together those hands of blessing 
which from my earliest days you have never taken off 
my head. 

“Include in your prayer, beside my name, the name 
of my faithful darling, Czipra, too. 

“T believe in your blessing as in every word of my 
religion, as in the forgiveness of sins, as in the world 
to come. 

“ But if you are not what God made you,—quiet and 
loving, a mother always ready to give her blessing with 
the halo of eternal love round your brow,—if you are 
cold, quick to anger, a woman of vengeance, proud of 
the coronet of a family blazon, one who wishes herself 
to rule Fate, and if the curses of such a merciless lady 
burden the girl whom I love, then so much the worse, I 
shall take her to wife with her dowry of curses—for I 
love her. 

“. . . God intercede between our hearts. 

“Your loving son, 
“ LORAND.”’ 


As the minister read, Czipra at each sentence pressed 
Lorand’s hand closer to her heart. She could neither 
speak nor weep: it was more than her spirit could bear. 
Every line, every phrase opened a Paradise before her, 
full of gladness of the other world: her soul’s idol loved 
her: loved her for love’s sake: loved her for herself: 
loved her because she made him happy: raised her to 


406 Debts of Honor 


his own level: was not ashamed of her wretched 
origin: could understand a heart’s sensitiveness: com- 
mended her name to his mother’s prayers: and was 
ready to maintain his love amidst his mother’s curses. 

A heart cannot bear such glory! 

She did not care about anything now: about her 
wound: about life, or death: she felt only that glow of 
health which coursed through every sinew of her body 
and possessed every thought of her soul. 

*T believe!” she said in rapture, rising where she 
lay: and in those words wa. everything: everything in 
which people are wont to believe, from the love of God 
to the love of man. 

She did not care about anything now. She had no 
thought for men’s eyes or men’s words: but, as she ut- 
tered these words, she fell suddenly on Lorand’s neck, 
drew him with the force of delight to her heart, and 
covered him with her kisses. 

The wound reopened in her breast, and as the girl’s 
kisses covered the face of the man she loved, her blood 
covered his bosom. 

Each time her impassioned lips kissed him, a fresh 
gush of blood spurted from that faithful heart, which 
had always been filled with thoughts of him only, which 
had beat only for him, which had, to save him, received 
the murderer’s knife:—the poor “ green-robed ” faith- 
ful girl. 

And as she pressed her last kiss upon the lips of her 
darling, . . . she knew already what was the mean- 
ing of eternity. . . «. 


CHAPTER XXXI 
THE BRIDAL FEAST 


“ Poor Czipra! I thought you would bury us all, and 
now it is I that must give you that one clod of earth 
the only gift you asked from the whole beautiful 
world.,”’ 

Topandy himself saw after the sad arrangements. 

Lorand could not speak: he was beside himself with 
grief. 

He merely said he would like to have his darling em- 
balmed and to take her to his family property, there to 
bury her. 

This wish of his must be fulfilled. 

It would be a sad surprise for his mother, to whom 
Topandy only the day before had written that her son 
was bringing home a new daughter-in-law. 

When Lorand had asked Topandy for Czipra’s hand, 
he immediately wrote to Mrs. Aronffy, thinking that 
what Lorand himself wrote to his mother would be in 
a proud strain. He anticipated his nephew’s letter, told 
his mother quietly and restrainedly in order that Lor- 
and’s letter might be no surprise to her. 

Now he must write again to her, telling that the bride 
was coming, and the family vault must be ready for her 
reception. 

And curiously Topandy felt no pain in his heart as he 
thought over it. 

‘ Death is after all che best solution of life!” 

He did not shed a single tear upon the letter he 
wrote: he sealed it and looked for a servant to despatch 
it. 

But other thoughts occupied him. 

He sought the magistrate. 


407 


408 Debts of Honor 


“My dear sir, when do you want to lock me up?” 

“When you like, sir.” 

“Would you not take me to gaol immediately?” 

* With pleasure, sir.” 

“How many years have they given me?” 

“Only two.” 

“T expected more. Well, then I can take this letter 
myself into the town.” 

“Will Mr. Aronffy remain here?” 

“No. He will take his dead love home to the coun- 
try. I have asked the doctor to embalm her, and I have 
a lead casket which I prepared for myself with the in- 
tention of continuing my opposition to the ordinance of 
God within it: now I have no need of it. I will lend 
it to Czipra. That is her dowry.” 

An hour later he went in search of Lorand, who was 
still guarding his dead darling. The magistrate was 
there too. 

“ My dear sir,” he said to the officer. ‘“‘ I am not go- 
ing to the gaol now.” 

“Not yet?” inquired Daruszegi. ‘“ Very well.” 

“Not now, nor at any other time. A greater master 
has given me orders—in a different direction.” 

They began to look at him in astonishment. 

His face was much paler than usual: but still that 
good-humored irony, and light-hearted smile was there. 
“ Lorand, my boy, there will be two funerals here.” 

“ Who is the second dead person?” asked Daruszegi. 

“ce I am.” 

Then he drew from his breast his left hand which he 
had hitherto held thrust in his coat. 

“An hour ago I wrote a letter to your mother. As I 
was sealing it the hot wax dripped onto my nail, and 
see how my hand has blackened since.” 

The tips of his left hand were blue and swollen. 

“The doctor, quickly,” cried Daruszegi to his serv- 
ant. 

“Never mind. It is already unnecessary,” said To- 
pandy, falling languidly into an arm-chair. “In two 
hours it is over. I cannot live more than two hours. 


The Bridal Feast 409 


In twenty minutes this swelling will reach my shoulder, 
and the way from thence to the heart is short.” 

The doctor, who hastened to appear, confirmed To- 
pandy’s opinion. 

“There is nothing to be done,” he said. 

Lorand, horror-stricken, hastened to take care of his 
uncle: the old fellow embraced the neck of the youth 
kneeling beside him. 

"You philosopher, you were right after all, you 
see. There is One who takes thought for two-legged 
featherless animals too. If I had known,— Knock and 
it shall be opened unto you:’ I should long have 
knocked at the door and cried, ‘O Lord, let me in!’ ’) 

Topandy would not allow himself to be undressed 
and put to bed. 

“Draw my chair beside Czipra. Let me learn from 
her how a dead man must behave. My death will not 
be so fine as hers: I shall not breathe my soul into the 
soul of my loved one: yet I shall be a gay travelling- 
companion.” 

Pain interrupted his words. 

When it ceased, he laughed at himself. 

“How a foolish mass of flesh protests! It will not 
allow itself to be overlorded. Yet we were only guests 
here! ‘ Animula, vagula, blandula. Hospes comesque 
corporis. Quae-nunc adibis loca? Frigidula, palidula, 
undula! Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.’ Certainly you will 
be ‘extra dominium’ immediately. And my _ lord 
Stomach, his Grace, and my lord Heart, his Excellency, 
and my lord Head, his Royal Highness all must resign 
office.” 

The doctor declared he must be suffering terrible 
agony all the time he was jesting and laughing; and 
he laughed when other people would have gnashed 
their teeth and cried aloud. 

“We have disputed often, Lorand,” said the old 
man, always in a fainter voice, “about that German 
savant who asserted that the inhabitants of other plan- 
ets are much nobler men than we here on earth. 
If he asks what has become of me, tell him I have ad- 


410 Debts of Honor 


vanced. I have gone to a planet where there are no 
peasants: barons clean earls’ boots. Don’t laugh at me, 
I beg, if Iam talking foolishly —But death dictates very 
curious verses.” 

The hand-grasp with which he greeted Lorand, 
proved that it was his last. 

After that his hand drooped, his eyes languished, his 
face became ever more and more yellow. 

‘Once again he raised his eyes. 

They met Lorand’s gaze. 

He wished to smile: in a whisper, straining desper- 
ately he said: 

“Immediately now. . . I shall know—what is—in 
the foggy spots of the Northern Dog-star :—and in the 
eyeless worm’s entrails.” 

Then, suddenly, with a forced final spasmodic effort, 
he seized the arms of his chair, and rose, lifted up his 
right arm, and turned to the magistrate. 

“‘ Sir,” he cried in a strong full-toned voice, “ I have 
appealed.” 

He fell back in the arm-chair. 

Some minutes later every wrinkle disappeared from 
his face, it became as smooth as marble, and calm, as 
those of dead persons are wont to be. 

Lorand was standing there with clasped hands be- 
tween his two dear dead ones. , 





> * * * * 


On the morrow at dawn Lorand rose for his journey 
and stepped into the cart with a closed lead coffin. So 
he took home his dead bride. 

The second letter which Topandy had written to his 
mother, the sealing of which had sealed his own fate, 
had not been posted, and could not have prepared them 
for his coming. 

At home they had received only the first letter. 

When that letter of good tidings arrived it caused 
feelings of intoxicated delight and triumph throughout 
the whole house. 

After all they loved him still best of all. He was the 


The Bridal Feast 41! 


favorite child of his mother and grandmother. No word 
of Desiderius is required for his heart was already 
united to his darling: and good Fanny was doubly 
happy in the idea that she would not be the only happy 
woman in the house. 

With what joy they awaited him! 

Could he ever have doubted that the one he loved 
would be loved by all?—no need to speak of her virtues: 
everybody knew them: all he need say was “ I love her.” 

It was certainly very well he did not send his mother 
that letter, in which he had written of Czipra and re- 
quested his mother’s blessing :—well that he had not 
wounded the dearest mother’s heart with those final 
words—“ but if you curse her whom I love—” 

Curse her whom he loves! 

Why should they do so? That letter brought a holi- 
day to the house. They arranged the country dwelling 
afresh: Desiderius took up his residence in the town, 
handing over to his elder brother his birthright. 

The eldest lady put off her mourning. Lorand’s bride 
must not see anything that could recall sad thoughts. 
Everything sad was buried under the earth. 

Desiderius could relate so much that was pleasant of 
the gypsy girl: Lorand’s letters during the past ten 
years of silence always spoke of the poor despised dia- 
mond, whose faithful attachment had been the sunny 
side of Lorand’s life. They read the bundles of letters 
again and again: it was a study for the two mothers. 
Where Lorand had been giving merely a passing hint, 
they could make great explanations, all pointing to 
Czipra. 

Providence had ordered it so! 

After the first meeting in the inn, it had all been or- 
dained that Lorand should save Czipra from the mur- 
derer’s knife, in order to be happy with her later. 

.. .. Why the gypsy girl was happy already. 

Topandy’s letter informed them that, immediately 
after the despatch of the letter, Lorand would wed 
Czipra, and they would come home together to the house 
of his parents, 


412 | Debts of Honor 


So the day was known, they might even reckon the 
hour when they would arrive. 

Desiderius remained in town to await Lorand. He 
promised to bring them out, however late they came, 
even in the night. 

The ladies waited up until midnight. They waited 
outside under the verandah. It was a beautiful warm 
moonlit night. 

The good grandmother, embracing Fanny’s shoulder, 
related to her how many, many years ago they had 
waited one night for the two brothers to come, but that 
was a very awful night, and the waiting was very sor- 
rowful. The wind howled among the acacias, clouds 
chased each other across the sky, hounds howled in the 
village, a hay-wain rattled in at the gate—and in it was 
hidden the coffin—And the populace was very suspi- 
cious: they thought the ice would break its bounds, if 
a dead man were taken over it. 

But now it was quite a different world. The air was 
still, not a breath of air: man and beast sleeps, only 
those are awake who await a bride. 

How different the weather! 

Then, all at once, a wain had stood at the gate: the 
servants hastened to open it. 

A hay-wain now rattled in at the gate, as it did then. 

And after the wain, on foot, the two brothers, hand 
in hand. 

The women rushed to meet them, Lorand was the 
first whom everyone embraced and kissed. 

“ And your wife?” asked every lip. 

Lorand pointed speechlessly to the wain, and could 
not tell them. 

Desiderius answered in his place. 

“We have brought his wife here in her coffin.” 


* * * * * 


CHAPTER XXXII 
WHEN WE HAD GROWN OLD 


SEVENTEEN years have passed since Lorand returned 
home again. 

What old people we have become since then! 

Besides, seventeen years is a long time :—and seven- 
teen heavy years! 

I have rarely seen people grow old so slowly as did 
our contemporaries. 

We live in a time when we sigh with relief as each 
day passes by—only because it is now over! And we 
will not believe that what comes after it will bring still 
worse days. 

We descend continuously further and further down, 
in faith, in hope, in charity towards one another: our 
wealth is dissipated, our spirits languish, our strength 
decays, our united life falls into disunion: it is not indif- 
ference, but “‘ ennui’? with which we look at the events 
of the days. 

‘One year to the day, after poor Czipra’s death Lo- 
rand went with his musket on his shoulder to a certain 
entertainment where death may be had for the asking. 

I shall not recall the fame of those who are gone— 
why should I? Very few know of it. 

Lorand was a good soldier. 

That he would have been in any case, he had natur- 
ally every attribute required for it: heroic courage, ath- 
letic strength, hot blood, a soul that never shrank. War 
would in any case have been a delight for him :—and in 
his present state of mind! 

Broken-hearted and crushed, his first love contemp- 
tuously trampling him in the dust, his second murdered 
in the fervor of her passion, his soul weighed with the 


413 


414 Debts of Honor 


load of melancholia, and that grievous fate which bore 
down and overshadowed his family: always haunted by 
that terrible foreboding that, sooner or later, he must 
still find his way to that eighth resting-place, that 
empty niche. | 

When the wars began his lustreless spirit burst into 
brilliance. When he put on his uniform, he came to me, 
and, grasping my hand, said with flashing eyes: 

“J am bargaining in the market where a man may 
barter his worn-out life at a profit of a hundred per 
cent.” 

Yet he did not barter his. 

Rumor talked of his boldness, people sang of his he- 
roic deeds, he received fame and wreaths, only he could 
not find what he sought: a glorious death. 

Of the regiment which he joined, in the end only a 
tenth part remained. He was among those who were 
not even wounded. 

Yet how many bullets had swept over his head! 

How he looked for those whistling heralds of death, 
how he waited for the approach of those whirring 
missiles to whom the transportation of a man to an- 
other world in a moment is nothing! They knew him 
well already and did not annoy him. 

These buzzing bees of the battlefield, like the real bees, 
whir past the ear of him who walks undaunted among 
them, and sting him who fears them. 

Once a bullet pierced his helmet. 

How often I heard him say: 

“Why not an inch lower?” 

Finally, in one battle a piece of an exploded shell 
maimed his arm, and when he fell from his horse, dis- 
abled by a sword-cut, a Cossack pierced him through 
with his lance. 

Yet even that did not kill him. 

For weeks he lay unconscious in the public hospital, 
under a tent, until I came to fetch him home. Fanny 
nursed him. He recovered. 

'' When he was better again, the war was over. 

How many times I heard him say: 


When We Had Grown Olds 415 


“ What bad people you are, for loving me so! What 
a bad turn you did me, when you brought me away 
from the scene of battle, brother! How merciless you 
were Fanny, to watch beside me! What a vain task 
it was on your part to keep me alive! How angry I 
am with you: what detestable people you are !—just for 
loving me so!”’ 

Yet we still loved him. 

And then we grew old peacefully. 

We buried kind grandmother, and then dear mother 
too: we remained alone together, and never parted. 

fLorand always lived with us: as long as we lived in 
town he did not leave the house sometimes for weeks 
together. 

The new order of things compelled me to give up the 
career which father had held to be the most brilliant 
aim of life. I threw over my yearning for diplomacy, 
and went to the plough. 

I became a good husbandman. 

I am that still. 

Then too Lorand remained with us. 

His was no longer a life, merely a counting of days. 

It was piteous to know it and to see him. 

A strapping figure, whose calling was to be a hero! 

A warm heart, that might have been a paradise on 
earth to some woman! 

A refined, fiery temperament that might have been the 
leading spirit of some country. 

Who quietly without love or happiness, faded leaf 
by leaf and did not await anything from the morrow. , 

Yet he feared the coming days. 

Often he chided me for wanting to brick up the door 
of that lonely building there beside the brook. 

Lest my children should ask, “ what can dwell within 
it?” Lest they try to discover the meaning of that 
hidden inscription as I had tried in my childish days. 

Lorand did not agree with the idea. 

“ There is still one lodging vacant in it.” 

And that was a horror to us all. 

To him, to us too. 


416 Debts of Honor 


Every evening we parted as if saying a last adieu. 

Nothing in life gave him pleasure. He took part in 
nothing which interested other men. He did not play 
cards, or drink wine: he was ever sober and of unchang- 
ing mood. He read nothing but mathematical books. 
I could never persuade him to take a newspaper in his 
hand. 

“The whole history of the world is one lie.” 

Every day, winter and summer, early in the morn- 
ing, before anyone had risen, he walked out to the 
cemetery, to where Czipra lay “under the perfumed 
herb-roots:” spent some minutes there and then re- 
turned, bringing in summer a blade of living grass, in 
winter of dried grass from her grave. 

He had a diary, in which nought was written, except 
the date: and pinned underneath, in place of writing, 
was the dry blade of grass. 

The history of a life contained in thousands of grass- 
blades, each blade representing a day. 

Could there be a sadder book? ~~ 

The only things that interested him, were fruit trees 
and bees. 

Animals and plants do not deceive him who loves 
them. 

The whole day long he guarded his trees and his sap- 
lings, and waged war against the insects: and all day 
long he learned the philosophy of life from those grand 
constitutional monarchists, the bees. 

There are many men, particularly to-day, in our coun- 
try, who know how to kill time: Lorand merely strug- 
gled with time, and every day as it passed was a defeat 
for him. 

He never went shooting, he said it was not good for 
him to take a loaded gun in his hand. 

At night one of my children always slept in his room, 

“T am afraid of myself,” he confessed to me. 

He was afraid of himself and of that quiet house, 
down there beside the brook. 

“T would love to sleep there under the perfumed 
herb-roots.” 


When We Had Grown Old = 417 


A life wasted! 

One beautiful summer afternoon my little son rushed 
to me with the news that his uncle Lorand was lying 
on the floor in the middle of the room, and would not 
rise. 

With the worst suspicions, I hastened to his side. 

When I entered his room, he was lying, not on the 
floor, but on the bed. 

He lay face downward on the bed. 

“What is the matter?” I asked, taking his hand. 

“ Nothing at all:—only I am dying slowly.” 

“ Great heavens! What have you done?” 

“Don’t be alarmed. It was not my hand.” 

“Then what is the matter?” 

“ A bee-sting. Laugh at me—-I shall die from it.” 

In the morning he had said that robber bees had at- 
tacked his hives, and he was going to destroy them. A 
strange bee had stung him on the temple. 

“ But not there. . . not there. . .” he panted, breath- 
ing feverishly: “ not into the eighth resting-place—out 
yonder under the perfumed herb-roots. There let us 
lie in the dust one beside the other. Brick up that door. 
Good night.” 

Then he closed his eyes and never opened them again. 

Before I could call Fanny to his side he was dead. 

The valiant hero who had struggled single-handed 
against whole troops, the man of iron whom neither 
the sword nor the lance could kill, in ten minutes per- 
ished from the prick of a tiny little insect. 

God moves among us! 

When the last moment of temptation had come, when 
weariness of life was about to arm his hand with the 
curse of his forefathers, He had sent the very tiniest of 
his flying minions, and had carried him up on the 
wings of a bee to the place where the happy ones dwell. 

** * * * 


And we are still growing older: who knows how long 
it will last? 


FINIS 





i Pai sh ; 
{ 4 


Ene iN 
L on 
pat al 


en wit a 
puabe _ i ui) va i os 
erenneny ay na a 


i 

] Me 

‘ ee 
he 


Bey enh ty it 
rh a Hy P 

J 
{ 

A i 

’ hi 























UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
Los Angeles 
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 


REC'D LD-URL 
AER 2 9 1006 


THE LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
LOS ANGELES 


anv 1H) LN 


cas 
Pos 





